


Pretty Electric

by Raletha



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Adult Themes, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sci Fi, Androids, Angst, Artificial Intelligence, Drama, Early Work, Existential Crisis, Existential Themes, Friendship, Humor, Introspection, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Nudity, POV First Person, Power Imbalance, Sex Robots, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 06:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 30,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1848094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raletha/pseuds/Raletha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Quatre Winner has everything. Or does he? An unusual gift, a Personal Android named Trowa, changes many things. Circa 2003-2006</p><p>(This story was languishing as an abandoned WIP for several years. I recently found the drafts of three more chapters I'd written that wrap up the main plot of the story well enough that I'm posting the story as flawed but finished. I apologise for the dangling subplots.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> The premise of this story was inspired by the Duran Duran song, "Electric Barbarella".

"What's this?" I glanced up to ask my grinning friend. Duo looked entirely too smug about the slim envelope he'd just tossed under my nose. I'd learned early on in our friendship that when Duo grinned the way he was grinning now, caution was required--nay – demanded.

"This," he said, bending to give the envelope a small push closer to me, "is the ultimate gift for the world's most reclusive bored billionaire. Happy early birthday, Q."

"What is it?" I picked up the envelope by its corner, dangling it above my desk.

Duo laughed. "It won't bite. Even I couldn't fit anything that dangerous in a package that small." He paused, his lips pursed thoughtfully. "No, I take that back. I could." He winked. "But I haven't."

I raised an eyebrow and swung the envelope back and forth between my fingertips.

"Open it already!" he insisted, throwing up his hands in mock disgust.

Chuckling that I'd managed to extract some exasperation from Duo, I complied--but slowly.

Two hours later found me engaged in the sort of paperwork I least expected to have encountered on any given work day, regardless of its proximity to my thirtieth birthday and the peculiar habits of my best friend.

"Physical attribute most desired in your ideal sex partner?" I read aloud to myself, blinking several times at the listed options. "A large... Oh my. Well, at least they're not afraid to ask." I perused the list several times before making my selection: skilled hands. That was the only thing I missed about my most recent ex--the long massages he'd given me after even longer days at my desk. But the last time I'd seen Alex had been nearly 2 years ago.

"Why am I doing this again?" I asked no one in particular as I worked my way through the current battery of probing questions--questions designed to determine the true essence of my deepest desires. A few items made me pause, shift uncomfortably, and then forcibly remind myself that my answers were to be seen by no human eyes. I had been instructed to answer the questions with as much honesty as I could muster, otherwise the finished model would be less than ideal for my needs.

I laughed, the sound muffled by the plush furnishings of Anthrotech Robotics' private VIP lounge. "Oh yes," I answered myself. "Because Duo thought this was a good idea. And Duo's Good Ideas shall Never Be Ignored."

I grimaced, turning the page to begin the next section, a section focused on my so-called intellectual personality and habits. "It's a sex toy, isn't it?" I muttered, steeling myself to plough through further interrogation.

A custom sex toy meticulously tailored for my unique psychology. I shook my head. Of all my friends, only Duo would have the audacity to sign me up for such a thing. I'd very nearly declined his gift, but he'd been so persistent--and he knew just how to push my buttons to manipulate me into doing things I'd never have the courage (or native insanity) to do without his encouragement.

Oh, the perils of fraternizing with the nouveau riche. Duo treated his wealth like prize tokens from a carnival, and like a child at a carnival, he was attracted to the shiniest, prettiest prizes. Technology especially fascinated him. Now I regretted that I'd mostly tuned him out when he'd been rabbiting on about his latest toy at lunch last week. It was something he called Heero, something which had been built especially for him, and something which was equipped with the latest breakthroughs in both artificial intelligence and robotics. Something, which was designed for the relief of Duo's more visceral needs, and close though Duo and I were, that had been far more information than I'd required.

It wasn't like I would actually use the thing, the Personal Android. It was a curiosity, a high tech gadget conceived for easing the ennui of the comfortably elite. And I was just bored enough that I let my curiosity get the better of me. My curiosity was what Duo had been counting on. For once it was roused, he knew I would have to satisfy it.

It took me the better part of four hours to complete the questionnaire--I'd even had to write several short essays on assorted self-related topics. By the time I'd fed my answers into their computer--the 'they' of 'their' being Anthrotech Robotics Incorporated of course--it was dark and I was tired. But I still had to meet with the Aesthetics Designer, the person who would determine the finer details of my PA's appearance.

"You must be Mister Winner," the slender redhead said ushering me through her door. "I'm Catherine Bloom." She extended her hand to me, which I took, and returned my smile.

I glanced about her studio--it resembled more the space of a renaissance artist than anything related to modern technology. Scattered about its surfaces were what looked like human anatomy studies--either formed in three dimensions of clay, or sketched in two dimensions on paper. Some male, some female, some life-sized, some small, many were unfinished, but a few had been completed with keen attention to detail and beauty.

"I'll be designing the look of your PA," she said. "It's the only aspect of the process we don't let the Titans design."

"Titans?"

"A nickname," she explained. "The Titans are our big iron--an array of networked mainframes that take the data from your questionnaire and use it to not just design the software parameters and firmware for your PA, but also layout the adaptive architecture of its neural net.

"Unfortunately, we haven't yet found a way for them to help with the physical design aspects of the PA's. I swear." She made a face. "The androids they design only look good to other machines. It takes a human eye to know human sexy."

"And you know sexy?" I asked.

"I know sexy," she confirmed with a grin before gesturing toward a low sofa while she collected several folios, magazines, pads, books, and a pencil. "Have a seat, please, Mister Winner. May I get you a drink?"

"For this? Yes, please. I have to admit to being somewhat uncomfortable about the entire... thing."

"That's why I offered," she said, setting her collection on the couch next to me and moving to a small wet bar in the corner. "Most people are a little uncomfortable talking to me about their PA. I'm very discreet. It's a requirement of the job, you understand. Consider anything you say to me in here at least as secure as if you'd talked to a psychiatrist or lawyer."

I nodded, taking the glass of wine she handed me. "I'll do my best."

"Okay!" she began brightly, seating herself near me and gesturing at the items between us. "I have art books, pornography, fashion magazines, my own sketches and drawings--everything and anything that may help you to show me what you find desirable in a purely physical sense."

"Okay," I echoed, fortifying myself with a slow sip of wine. I set my glass aside, wiped my hands on my pant legs and selected the first magazine in her collection.

"So," she said as she picked up her sketchpad and pencil. "Is your preference for a male, female, or androgyne? Or..." She smirked. "Something altogether alien? Tentacles perhaps?"

I choked on my wine.

Catherine laughed brightly. "It works every time," she said.


	2. Chapter 1: Delivery

Three weeks, that was how long I had to wait for the completion of my Personal Android. I was surprised that they could build something so complex so quickly, but as Catherine had explained to me it was one of the advantages of using AI's to design an AI.

I couldn't help but be amused by this: humans had created intelligent machines, which were in turn, capable of creating even more intelligent machines--with architectures and algorithms beyond our explicit capability to design ourselves. It was like the blind leading the blind; only I wasn't certain who was leading whom.

Three weeks, it certainly wasn't a long time, but it dragged by at a most glacial pace. All of the routine activities of my life became slow drudgery, and long meetings at the office left me feeling as if my head would explode were I forced to endure them for another minute. Of course my head stayed intact, but I would divert myself from such proceedings by imagining the panic an unexpected head explosion would provoke. However, I was certain that Martin Gallagher, my Vice President of Marketing, would merely sneer at the mess my brain matter left on his suit.

The best diversions during this time were the progress reports I received from ARI. My Personal Android was on schedule; its neural net was responding well to initial training algorithms; and its language skills were integrating well with its knowledge base. Along with each progress report would come an invitation to visit the lab and see the PA under development. I was tempted, but I never went.

Despite my daily frustrations, something new was in my life: something fragile and glorious that I hadn't experienced for a very long while. As I lay in bed each night over the course of my three-week wait, I would toss and turn and get little sleep. But this wasn't an unpleasant insomnia. The thoughts that filled my mind were the thoughts of curious anticipation. What would it be like? How would it look? My mind would wander back to my meeting with Catherine Bloom, all the pictures she had shown me, and my responses to them.

I remembered her sketches and the things she had seemed to take note of, and in my head I began to construct my PA in the full knowledge that it probably would little resemble my imaginings. In fact, I counted on it. Lying in the darkness every night I imagined, and I tried to predict.

During the day, I would chase such ridiculous thoughts from my head. The PA was nothing more than a curiosity--and a perverse one at that. I doubted that I would have much use for it unless it was also programmed to do household chores. Perhaps it would be able to cook? That would save me the hassle of finding a new personal chef.

And now it had been twenty-two days since Duo had given me the envelope; the delivery was scheduled for one o'clock. In the hope of distracting myself from the imminent arrival of my PA, I had invited my friend around for brunch.

He arrived twelve minutes past 10:30 brandishing a grin and a bottle of champagne. "Is that for brunch?" I asked Duo, ushering him inside. "Or am I meant to christen the PA with it?"

"Have you written your speech yet?"

I put the champagne in the fridge and made us espresso.

"So what is for brunch?" Duo asked.

"Guess," I said passing him his coffee from the kitchen as he seated himself at the bar.

"Hmm, based on past experience, there can be only one answer."

I laughed as I whisked the eggs.

Duo watched me silently for a time as I chopped up leftover potatoes, sautéed spinach with garlic, and crumbled the feta cheese. "I can still remember the first time you made me an omelet," he said.

"I wish you wouldn't," I said.

"Well, calling what you made an omelet is being generous, but it wasn't that bad."

I rolled my eyes. "It was bad enough that I didn't try again for years."

"You always were the worst cook of the three of us. I'm surprised we didn't suffer from malnutrition while we were flatting together."

"At least I cooked."

"You didn't cook, you ordered delivery Chinese."

"That counts." I poured half of the egg mixture into the pan, tilting it so that the entire base of the pan was covered. "Have you heard from Hilde recently? How's she doing?"

"Yeah, I got vid-mail from her last week. She's doing well--seems happy enough on Luna 2, and enjoys the work. She's thrilled to be off planet finally."

"Oh, I'm glad," I said. "She's worked hard enough for it."

"She said she likes working in zero-G. Makes her monstrosity easier to handle."

"I can imagine." I smiled at the thought of Hilde, petite and fearless, piloting one of the huge colony construction drones.

"Yeah," Duo said and sighed. I glanced at my friend to catch the remnants of a nostalgic smile melting from his face.

"So," I began anew. "How's... um, Heero?"

"Oh, he's fine. Odd, but fine. He's developed an extremely sarcastic sense of humour recently, can you believe?"

"It has a sense of humour?"

"Yes, he does."

"Sorry, yes, he," I corrected myself. "That's surprising, isn't it? A sense of humour?"

"I don't know. I was surprised, but then the PA's do learn a lot and change accordingly."

"Do you, um..." With a flip of my wrist I turned Duo's omelet. "What else do you do with him aside from..."

"Sex?" Duo cut into my pause. "I talk to him, you know. He's a good listener, I'm a good talker. I'm teaching him how to build models too." Duo fidgeted with his empty demitasse cup, turning it in slow circles upon its saucer. "I figured all the hundreds of unbuilt ones lurking in my spare room could keep him occupied. He's very thorough. Great attention to detail."

"He's building your models?"

"Yeah, I know, I know--I never let anyone touch my models, but I just..." Duo sighed, abandoning his toying with the cup. "I never have time for all the fun stuff I want to do anymore. Being the boss sucks."

"I did warn you about that." I plated the second omelet. "It's ready, shall we move to the dining room?"

"Sure." Duo followed me to the table. "I know you warned me. But what about you? Any more thoughts or plans for an early retirement?"

I shook my head, and we sat. "I haven't been able to fit it into my schedule yet. Ironic, isn't it? Since these days I feel like more of a figurehead than a CEO..."

"You're still the boss, don't sell yourself short. WE wouldn't be half of what it is if not for your efforts."

"Maybe." I shrugged as I ground a generous scattering of pepper over my meal. "Even so I'm not feeling that challenged any longer. Winner Enterprises practically runs itself nowadays."

"No, you're just good at delegating. Your father never mastered that, just because you have doesn't mean your role is dispensable."

"It's not just that, Duo. I'm bored."

"I know you're bored. God, you've been moping around enough lately." Duo lifted a fork-full of omelet to his nose and sniffed cautiously before deeming it edible. "Why don't you diversify your holdings more? New acquisitions always seem to excite you."

"Not so much anymore." With a sigh, I let my right wrist fall to the edge of the table and stared at my knife before looking back up at my friend. "Anyway, you're the one with the penchant for new toys. I'm not feeling very playful or ambitious these days."

"Time for a new risk?"

"I'm bored with business risks, Duo. I've gotten too good at this game. The risks I take now don't feel that risky any longer. The excitement, the adrenaline is gone."

"I wasn't talking about a business risk."

Our conversation waned after that; it was territory we'd covered many times before. Duo felt I was too conservative, too staid in the way I lived my life. Conversely, I felt he was--at times--too intrusive into my personal space.

However, our camaraderie did not remain stilted for long. After we'd cleared away the dishes from our meal, we retired to the living room to engage in a favourite pastime: heckling the talking heads of the weekend political shows.

One o'clock came and went.

Despite my continuing insistence to the contrary, I was now agitated. I paced; I fidgeted; I drove Duo to herbal tea. Not for himself--he hates the stuff--but for me.

"Do you actually drink this crap, or do you just collect it for the pretty boxes?" he asked from where he was arse up in the kitchen rummaging through the tea shelf of my pantry.

"I like the pretty boxes," I said, flopping down on my loveseat and glaring at the wall clock. "They're over half an hour late."

"They'll be here. It's Saturday, Q. Relax. It's not like you have anything better to do."

"I hate waiting. It's the most inefficient and useless way to spend time imaginable."

"For the head of such a successful corporation, you haven't cultivated much patience, you know."

"I am not impatient. I hate waiting. It's not the same thing."

"Whatever you say," he said in his most placating tone before standing up and addressing me over the breakfast bar. "What in God's name are rosehips and why would anyone drink such things?"

"Just make some more coffee."

"Yeah, sure, you need more caffeine like a hole in the head."

I opened my mouth to retort, but stopped as my door chime rang. I leapt to my feet and fairly pounced on the intercom, "Hello?"

Catherine Bloom's voice came through the light static, distinctive and cheerful, "Mister Winner, we have a delivery for you!"

"Miss Bloom?" I'd not expected her to accompany the arrival of my PA. She had led me to believe that her role ended with the surface detailing of my android. The surprise was a pleasant one. "Please, come up." I buzzed her in.

I turned to Duo who stood with a box of chamomile tea in one hand, ginseng in the other. "It's here," I said. Presently, Catherine, accompanied by a burly fellow wheeling a large plastic crate, breezed into my home.

Catherine greeted me with a fleeting hug, and waved away my attempt to introduce her to Duo. "Oh, I know Mr. Maxwell," she said with a wink aimed at Duo. "I designed Heero as well."

"Hey, Cathy," Duo said, embracing her and kissing her cheek.

Turning away from them, I fidgeted and watched the man maneuvering the crate to a clear area of my living room. Whether I was more nervous about him dislodging a fragile objet d'art, the possibility of his hand-truck scratching the hardwood floor, or of my imminent encounter with my Personal Android, I did not know. One of these anxieties prompted me to leave Duo and Catherine chatting in the foyer while I offered assistance to the man with the crate.

"Nah, I'm all right," he said after a quick evaluation of my slim frame and fine clothes.

"Now, Mr. Winner." Catherine's voice drew near. "I have some delivery forms for you to sign, and some information to give you about how to care for Trowa."

"Trowa?"

"Yes," she said with a nod of her head that sent her red curls dancing. "Your Personal Android, that's his name."

Caught between listening to Catherine and watching the delivery man begin taking apart the PA's, no, Trowa's crate, I settled on Catherine, with surreptitious glances in the direction of the soon to be unveiled PA.

"He doesn't require that much physical care, he can take care of his own hygiene and energy levels," she said as I signed the delivery papers. "Right now the most important thing for you to know is that, while Trowa has a lot of knowledge, he has no experience, and so for the first two weeks, his learning algorithms are set at a much higher rate than what he'll usually operate at."

"You mean it's very impressionable right now?"

"Yes, he'll be very curious, and you'll need to be patient with him for best results. He'll be learning how to respond to you and your needs."

"It's... he's not already programmed with those sort of behavioural elements?"

"Well, yes, he has initial biases for determining his core behaviours and a preset knowledge base drawn from the data we collected from you, but that's all very static. To interact with you well and develop his personality, he has to learn."

"So what do I do?" The crate had come apart into several sections and the android, which was facing away from me, was seated on a strange cubic sort of chair. All I could see was the top of the back of its head. It didn't move.

"Be yourself, and be patient. He might make mistakes, and you'll need to let him know when he does." Catherine laid a neatly manicured hand on my forearm. "Also be sure to tell him when he's doing well--to reinforce those behaviours. It's very important for him to get feedback and evaluation from you."

"It sounds like training a dog." I grimaced. I preferred cats.

"No, it's not like that at all." Catherine grinned. "Think of his mental state as more childlike--like a very smart and knowledgeable child. He has very complex thought mechanisms and communication skills, but little wisdom for processing his world. You have to help him develop that wisdom."

"I think I understand."

"It's not so tough, Q," Duo said, breaking into the conversation. "In fact it's a real rush watching them learn and adapt. I bet you won't get much sleep this weekend."

I blinked at Duo; he winked, and I cleared my throat before returning my attention to Catherine.

"Now, to activate him, you say 'Hello' and then his name." Catherine took me by the elbow, drawing me toward the android. My feet resisted following and we stopped short. "If you want to turn him off--put him into stand-by mode, you say 'Standby' and then his name. Those are the only voice commands associated with him, and only your voice will trigger either activation or shut down."

"All right," I said.

"Aren't you curious to see him?" she asked, observing my sudden reluctance.

"I am. But I..." I shrugged. It seemed ridiculous to suddenly want to kick my guests out of my home so I could get my first look at the PA alone, but I found myself feeling a sharp stab of selfish desire to do just that.

"You'd prefer privacy?" Catherine asked cautiously.

"Yes, I would, my apologies for being a poor host."

"No need to apologise, Mr. Winner. Many people prefer to take their time, do these things at their own pace." We turned and made our way back to the foyer where the deliveryman waited by the door. Duo hung back casting curious looks over his shoulder.

Catherine continued with a rueful smile, "You'll have to excuse my impatience. Trowa is, I believe, my best work to date. I hope that you'll find him pleasing enough."

"I'm sure I will, and please, Miss Bloom, call me Quatre." We reached the door.

"Then call me Cathy, Quatre," she said. The deliveryman opened the door and carried the leftover packaging to the elevator.

"Thank you, Cathy. I appreciate your coming."

"I don't usually, but this time, I really did want to. You still have my contact information, don't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Oh, here, before I forget." She rummaged in her shoulder bag for a moment, pulled out a data disc, and handed it to me. "Here's Trowa's... I'd guess you'd call it a manual. If you have any problems, or questions, don't hesitate to call me directly," she said. "Nice to see you again, Duo."

"You too, Cathy." He glanced between Catherine and me, and then stepped to the door himself. "Why don't I walk you to your car? I can tell you about Heero's latest developments."

"I'd like that!" she replied with an enthusiastic bob of her head.

"Okay, well, Q, I'll catch up with you later." Duo gave me a loose hug. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Don't worry." I said, and they exited to the hall.

"I don't," Duo called back with a parting wave.

And so I was alone--at least for the moment. My stomach trembled as I turned away from the door and moved back into my living room. Halting steps took me closer to the android. Slowly, I circled it reminding myself that oxygen was a necessary thing and therefore to keep breathing. Despite my best intentions, not only had my curiosity morphed into apprehension, but I was also feeling the beginnings of sexual arousal. A pleasant, giddy warmth had blossomed in my loins, one which I was at pains to ignore. It was a peculiar sensation resulting from my anticipation, I was sure, but the android, as my path revealed it to me, was certainly beautiful.

My eyes devoured its form, not knowing where to linger, or where to look first. Even though it was seated, my first impression was that of height. Long slender limbs draped over the plastic chair-cube suggesting, not just height, but also grace in their arrangement. Its shoulders were broad--but not hulking--and its waist and hips were slim, giving the appearance of fine-boned strength.

The PA had been dressed in a deftly tailored black suit with a Nehru style jacket. It provided a pleasant contrast with the pale caramel colour of its skin, skin which appeared smooth as satin, with a nearly imperceptible sheen to it, distinctly dissimilar from human skin. I bent closer wondering if they'd given the android either body hair or pores. Neither was visible on its face (except for the fine, arched eyebrows, of course). And, oh, that face--what a masterpiece of refinement it was with its high cheekbones, aristocratic nose, and strong tapered jaw. Its lips had a delicate seductive curve to them, as if begging to be put to use in the most decadent fashion.

I stopped that thought immediately, and turned my attention to its hair. It was arranged in an odd asymmetric style that resembled nothing for which I had expressed a preference: short in the back with longish, gravity defying bangs partially veiling its face. I wondered what colour its eyes would be when they opened. Its hair color was a rich brunet that reflected copper where the light hit it. Tentatively I reached out and brushed the edge of its fringe with my fingertips. Soft and flexible, the strands bent under my touch but sprang back into their improbable style when I withdrew my hand.

Suddenly I was consumed with the desire--no need--to touch, to explore. My fingers moved from its hair to its cheek. The skin was even softer, smoother than it had appeared, and delightfully pliable, giving the feel of actual flesh over bone. It was warm too, as if blood flowed beneath its surface. My curiosity prompted my fingers to journey to the collar of its jacket. Unbuttoning the top few buttons, I slid my fingers along the side of its throat, seeking a pulse. There was none.

I frowned in dismay. The illusion was so powerful otherwise. Hastily, I unbuttoned the rest of the jacket so I could lay my palm over where a heart would be. Nothing. I stepped back, pulling open its jacket to reveal the sculpted contours of the android's chest and abdomen. The PA's torso was hairless and smooth, its silky skin called to my touch, but I resisted. My eyes slid to the buckle of its belt.

And abruptly I felt excruciatingly self-conscious--as if a dozen pairs of judging eyes were watching me. What was I thinking? I hadn't even activated the damned thing. At any rate, I wasn't intending to indulge myself with a machine. Feeling the burn of shame in my cheeks I refastened the buttons of its jacket, smoothing the fabric so that it lay flat and neat across its chest.

I backed away from the android and turned. A few steps took me away from it and closer to my study. But something halted my next step. Duo's earlier words returned to me: _I wasn't talking about a business risk._

I turned back, feeling as if my heart would burst from my chest. I approached the android and fell to one knee before it. I cleared my throat, and I spoke.

"Hello, Trowa."


	3. Chapter 2: Introductions

"Hello, Trowa," I said.

The android's smooth eyelids twitched, their surface perturbed only slightly before they opened, and a clear gaze the colour of mid summer foliage seized me.

"Hello, Quatre."

Its voice, no, his voice--for upon hearing that voice, I could no longer continue to think of the android as an it--it glided over the syllables of my name, caressing them with its smooth tenor, its mildly inflected English effortlessly shaping the terminal French r in a rippling whisper of breath. I'd never heard my name spoken quite like that.

"You know my name already?"

"Yes," he said, his eyes tracking me as I moved away from him to sit in the nearest armchair. "I've always known your name."

Nothing remotely mechanical or artificial resided in his tone, although his delivery was unusual--but not in a fabricated fashion. More, it was unusually moderate and gentle, rather than stilted, mechanical, or unpracticed. He spoke with a cultured British accent, like mine, except that his was coloured by foreign phonology, as if he'd traveled widely and lived in many different countries throughout his youth. "I'm impressed," I said, mostly to myself.

"You're impressed by my knowledge of your name?" he asked.

"No, not exactly. I'm impressed by your voice, it sounds very... nice."

"I'm glad my voice pleases you."

I didn't know what to say in response to that so I just stared at him for a while, my chin resting in my hand wondering what was supposed to happen next.

It seemed that the android and I had that much in common, for he soon spoke. "What may I do, Quatre?"

"Pardon me?" I sat back. Trowa's query was an abrupt one, and I wanted to be sure of his meaning before answering.

"What may I do, Quatre?" he repeated.

"I heard what you said, Trowa, but I didn't fully understand your meaning." I found myself selecting my own words more carefully to avoid any ambiguity.

The android gave a single nod of understanding. "Would you please tell me what I'm permitted to do here, Quatre?"

"Oh, I don't know." I stalled. Catherine said he would be curious, so allowing him to explore my home would be a good idea. And it neatly helped me avoid the android's primary function. "You're free to look around the apartment, why don't you do that?"

"All right," he said and stood smoothly.

I watched him quietly for a time as he moved about my living room to familiarise himself with the space. The way he moved astonished me as much as his voice had, for it was with such fluid, unconscious grace. He moved like a dancer or a gymnast--or a large predatory cat. That something wholly mechanical could simulate such vital characteristics and subtleties of motion intrigued me. I wondered if he had been programmed for anything so whimsical as dancing.

Should I ask him? Was it appropriate to engage him in such conversation? Was he even designed to converse about his abilities? I wondered. I almost asked, except that he appeared to be engrossed in studying an abstract sculpture resting on a console table. In a matte green stone, depending upon the angle at which the statue was viewed, it appeared to be either a stylised human eye, or a Madonna-like figure bent over a swaddled infant in her lap. It had belonged to my father and had always fascinated me as a child. Trowa appeared fascinated, running his fingertips lightly across the curved contours of the piece and tilting his head this way and that.

He straightened and turned to me. "Is this art?"

"Yes," I replied, surprised by his question. Curiosity prompted me to stand and approach him. "It's a sculpture called 'The Mystic Eye'."

He picked up the heavy sculpture easily with one hand. His eyes ticked over the surface as he turned it in his hand, observing it from all angles. "It's not a very accurate depiction of an eye."

"No, it's not. Art isn't always realistic. This is a particularly abstract piece, see." I hesitantly reached toward the sculpture in his hand to gesture along its lines. "If you think of this part here as the pupil, and this part as the eyelid, it's a stylised eye. But..." I put my hand on his wrist to prompt him to turn the piece. His skin was warmer now. "If you look at it from this angle, this looks more like a woman bent over a baby."

"It does?" the android frowned at the sculpture. He didn't see it.

"Well, it's very abstract too, but think of this part," I touched what would also be the eye's pupil, "as the baby's head. And see here," I traced my finger along a protruding curve, "is the mother's arm, and this," I indicated the thicker top curve of the sculpture, "is her bowed head."

I withdrew my hand and watched Trowa continue to study the piece. After a few moments of studying it, he fell still and closed his eyes.

Beside him I fidgeted, unsure what to do in the wake of his sudden inaction. I assumed he was processing new information, adding it to his repertoire of pattern recognition algorithms or some other similar procedure. How long would it take? Was I supposed to just leave him standing there?

My worry proved to be unnecessary, for Trowa soon reopened his eyes and spoke, "I believe I can see it now." He lifted his free hand to the sculpture and for the first time I noticed how fine and strong his hands were, with long, articulate fingers, slender and sure. For an instant I imagined them touching me, but quickly returned my focus to Trowa's words as he ran his fingers over the sculpture. "She's seated? These are her legs? She's wearing a long robe and head covering?"

"Yes, that's right." I gave him an encouraging smile when he looked to me for confirmation.

"The image is reminiscent of Christian mythology."

I nodded. "It is indeed."

"What is the meaning of the image in this context, Quatre?" He set the sculpture back down, oriented exactly as it had been.

"I don't know. Most people believe that the person who looks at art constructs their own meaning."

"Is art not also an expression of the artist's intentions?"

"Yes," I said, "but there's no way for us to know for sure what the artist intended. This piece is hundreds of years old, and the artist is anonymous. Even if we had a name and a biography." I shrugged. "It would still be impossible to know exactly what he or she meant by fusing the images of an eye and the Madonna."

Trowa remained silent for a time, and then he turned to me, his eyes unnaturally intent as they met mine. "What do you think?"

"I've always enjoyed the piece for its enigma. Somehow I feel like it would be spoiled if I were to assign some concrete interpretation to it."

"It's meaning to you is a lack of meaning?"

"I suppose," I concurred with an inclination of my head.

"And you find that satisfactory?"

"Yes, I do."

Trowa didn't nod, or respond in any way--verbally or otherwise. Instead he made his way toward the kitchen. I followed a few steps behind him, and, remembering what Catherine had told me, spoke to encourage him. "Trowa, I like that you have an interest in art," I said. "I have some art books you may..." I paused. Enjoy? Like? Was he capable of enjoyment? "You may look at them sometime."

"Thank you, Quatre."

I leaned against a convenient piece of wall and continued watching Trowa. He started his exploration of the kitchen with the bowl of fruit I kept near the bar. Carefully he selected each fruit in turn and raised it to his nose, but his face remained impassive at each experimental inhalation. I was surprised he had a sense of smell. It was probably more like a simple chemical sensor than anything resembling a human olfactory sense, but it was a sense nonetheless. I supposed smell was a large part of sexual experience, but couldn't fathom why it would matter to the android.

Now Trowa was running his fingertips over the shape of each fruit, exploring the texture of each piece's rind or skin. He spent the most time touching the peaches, but I shifted in discomfort at the way his fingers caressed the solo banana he found.

"Do you ever need to eat?" I asked him.

"No, I don't require food, but I am able to eat." He set the banana down and picked up a pear.

"What about sleep? Do you sleep?" It seemed funny to me somehow that Trowa held the pear upside down as he examined it.

"I can simulate sleep, but I require only an hour or so of downtime for system maintenance each day." He swapped the pear for an apple, holding it stem down as well. And why not?

"Downtime?"

"It serves a purpose much like sleep does for you." He turned the apple right way up, and I decided that the next time I ate an apple; I would hold it upside down. Trowa continued, "It gives my system time to update and enhance my neural net. It helps me learn."

"So you're aware of how your own..." Should I call it a mind? "Mind works?"

"I'm aware of some of the principles used in my design," he said. The apple was exchanged for the banana again.  
Unwittingly, my throat went dry. "And your overall design? You know what you're made for?"

His lips curved into a vague, lopsided smile before he met my eyes. I was caught glancing between his face (for his smile was a pleasant surprise), and his hands. One held the banana, near its stem, and the other stroked it idly. He didn't respond immediately. If he'd been human, I would have thought he was toying with me. But he wasn't human, so it must have been me reacting to my own discomfort.

"I do," he said, and put the fruit back in the bowl.

I decided that I didn't need to ask him any further questions at the moment, fearing already that my dreams that night would be disturbed by phallic fruit symbols.

Eventually Trowa found his way to my library cum music room. By this time, it was dusk and the baby grand lurked in the fading light like a hungry beast. At least that was how it always looked to me. "Lights," I said quickly. Yellowy light filled the room and dispelled the illusion.

Trowa glided into the room: that was the only way to describe the way he moved. He trailed fingers over the rows of book spines, his eyes intent on--I supposed--the titles and authors. It gave me a chance to briefly admire my collection. Paper books were a modern rarity, and most of mine were deemed antique in this age of bits and bytes. When the android reached the end of the bookshelves, he lingered at the wide window overlooking the streets far, far below. The night was clear and the clouds high enough tonight that the streetlights were visible with uncommon clarity. Usually, smog diminished their glow.

His tall form stood motionless, its back to me, looking so elegant in the trim, dark suit that for a fleeting moment I imagined he was real, with a pulse under his skin, and a real mind instead of a neural net. Then he turned and drew my attention to the piano. His words banished the illusion. "Do you play the piano, Quatre?"

I grimaced. "No, I don't, I mean, not anymore." That piano, I had never played.

Trowa stared at my face without speaking for a long time. Processing my expression perhaps? I expected--actually, I have no idea what I expected, but when he finally spoke again, I turned cold.

"It's a source of displeasure to you that you do not play any longer? Why?"

No one had ever asked me that, not even Duo. I opened my mouth, but none of my jaw, lips, or tongue wanted to manipulate the right words. Then it occurred to me that I didn't even know what the right words were. The walls of the library drew close around me, the piano loomed, and all I could do was watch as Trowa, a slight frown creasing his brow, moved to where I stood by the door. The thick Persian rug muffled his footsteps.

"I'm sorry, Quatre. Did I say something wrong?" He was standing so close to me now. If he were human, I'd be able to smell his breath.

"N-no," I stammered, straightening and taking a step back. Years of having to improvise confidence in the boardroom allowed me to recover quickly. "No, Trowa. You didn't say anything wrong. It's just that... it's not an easy question for me to answer. I haven't played the piano, or any other instrument, since my father died."

"I don't understand."

"That's okay. I wouldn't expect you to understand something I don't."

"You don't know how your own mind works," Trowa said seriously.

"I..." Inexplicably, I laughed. "No, I guess I don't."

Trowa looked curious, but I was relieved by my unexpected burst of humour. I felt decidedly more relaxed as I ordered the lights off and led Trowa through the remainder of my home, most notably to my bedroom.

My bedroom I left until last out of my continuing uncertainty regarding Trowa's ultimate purpose, a purpose which--so far--hadn't been that much of an issue. Trowa hadn't flirted with me or made any other hint of a sexual advance since the ambiguous moment in the kitchen. I was glad of it, since Trowa's mental state seemed so innocent at present, it was difficult--and even disturbing--to view him as a sexual entity.

"And this is where I sleep," I said to Trowa as we entered the master suite. The bedside lamps, triggered by a motion sensor, slowly came to life, bringing the room incrementally from darkness to gentle illumination.

Where I had decorated most of my home in a fairly spare aesthetic, in my bedroom I had permitted myself more extravagance, and had indulged my senses with rich textures, patterns, and colours. A riot of spicy tones dressed the large bed; its thick wooden posts, square and thick jutted up to the ceiling at all four corners. The walls, covered in Venetian style plaster and stained a rich burgundy, bore the pieces of art I considered the most evocative.

One in particular captured Trowa's interest. He moved toward the painting and, much as he had with the sculpture in the living room, asked me to explain it. "What is this an image of, Quatre? What are the young men doing? They don't appear happy."

"It's the Greek god Apollo holding his mortal lover, Hyacinth," I said, rubbing my hands together nervously as I moved closer to Trowa. "Hyacinth has just died because Apollo hit him in the head with a discus, see it's lying in the grass there." I gestured.

"This is a sad image?"

"Yes. It's sad, but I think it's also beautiful in a way."

"How is it beautiful to you?"

"It's just..." I cocked my head to study the piece more closely. It had hung on my wall long enough that I hadn't really looked at it recently. "It's a very poignant image of loss and powerlessness. Apollo, for all his power, can't bring Hyacinth back. He's just as prone to a horrible mistake as we are. I like that for some reason."

"Then it's the emotional content of the piece you find beautiful?"

"Yes, exactly. A lot of aesthetic appeal is the emotional effect of a piece."

"All right," Trowa said, fell silent for a time, and then turned rather abruptly to face me. "Do you wish for me to sleep with you here?"

"Sleep with me?" I recoiled. Did he mean it as a euphemism for sex? A literal interpretation would be best, I decided. "I didn't think you required sleep?"

He shrugged, a suddenly human gesture. "I didn't know if you wished for me to stay with you at night."

"Um, no, Trowa. I'm used to sleeping alone. I don't see why you should pretend for my sake."

"All right, Quatre." He paused. "Is there anything you would like for me to do while you sleep? Where shall I rest when I do my system maintenance?"

"Do whatever you like, and you may use any room you find most convenient. Except for this room, please."

"I understand."

My stomach grumbled at me, audibly. In the excitement of exploring with Trowa, I had neglected to have dinner. "Trowa?"

"Yes, Quatre?"

"Do you know how to cook?"


	4. Chapter 3: Preparations

Memories of previous forays into my local supermarket eluded me, although I was certain I must have been in it at least once before. However, I'd rarely been without the services of a personal chef, who would conduct the majority of my grocery shopping. Any other items I required I simply picked up from the deli on the corner, or one of the many greengrocer stalls I passed on my way to or from work. But today, I had a _bona fide_ grocery list of my own and had decided to navigate the formidable aisles of Food Planet myself.

Here I was, entering the cart filled lobby of the place, surrounded by people who moved with the surety and speed of experience, experience which I lacked in this particular environment. It was rush hour in the supermarket; the chaos of milling bodies, babbling children and their scolding mothers, and the metallic cacophony of clattering carts surrounded me. It was an altogether alien world into which I thrust myself.

I could have sent Trowa to do the shopping. He had even suggested my doing so.

Nevertheless, several reasons why he should not do my shopping had immediately occurred to me, the most compelling of which was that he was far too attractive to pass as a domestic model. Given that he would be shopping using my account--my name--it wouldn't be long before some shop clerk or other talked to someone who in turn talked to a tabloid reporter. I didn't have the energy or inclination to deal with such an affair.

Winner Enterprises was, after all, a bastion of tradition and conservatism, and I remained at the limits of the board's patience and indulgence of my progressive business ideas. They'd not be very tolerant or understanding if my name appeared in the context of such a salacious scandal. It would sap any good will I'd managed to cultivate over recent years.

Mere contemplation of the prospect wearied me.

I trudged along behind my cart as I navigated my way into the produce department. The cart had a wobbly wheel and kept veering toward the left. Since I was concentrating on maintaining my death-grip on my cart's handle and not ramming a precarious looking pyramid of cantaloupes, I did not immediately register the first calling of my name.

When it came a second time, I remembered the primary reason I preferred not to put myself in these sort of public venues: people occasionally recognised me.

The recognition alone wasn't so dreadful--at least not compared to the entire problem of being approached by someone who (at least felt that he or she) knew me, but upon whom I had never laid eyes in my life. It bothered me even more when this someone used my first name and spoke cheerfully as if we were prior acquaintances--or even friends.

"Quatre!" said the tall woman standing before me. She grinned and ducked her head when I smiled blandly back at her.

"Pardon me, have we met?" I asked, politely enough. I had found it a good strategy to put the onus on the one accosting me to justify his or her interruption. Idly I reached for a melon, scrutinising the fruit as if I knew how to tell a good one from a bad one; I glanced back up to the woman for her answer.

She moved closer, steering her cart to parallel mine. For a moment--a brief one--I envied her cart-wielding skill.

"Yes," she said, "two summers ago when you cut the ribbon at the new wildlife park."

It was worse when it was someone I had met before, but failed to recollect.

"Oh, yes," I said without faltering and injected some genuine pleasure into my smile, "Forgive me," I reached for a not incredible name, "Sarah, was it?"

The young woman appeared wholly unfamiliar to me, though I had grown accustomed to this sort of thing in my life. In my day to day dealings I met many people: some individually or in small groups for business purposes, but often in crowds--occasionally for business, sometimes for other reasons: for public relations or charity or somesuch thing. Usually, in this latter case, it was the organisation wherein my interest lay, and since I had a poor memory for the faces and names I encountered in fleeting clusters of social necessity, I harboured a small--but not inconsiderable--dread for encounters such as the one in which I now found myself.

This dread I disguised with an easy smile--cultured with care to appear so natural and unaffected--and friendly words. And I experienced an odd bout of empathy for my android. Truly this situation was one in which I acted in accordance to my own programming and conditioning of myself, much like a machine. I did these things because this was what I must do. I functioned in these situations with little pleasure or desire.

I wished only to conduct my shopping and return home in time to assist Trowa with preparing a meal for my scheduled guests.

"It's Sally," she corrected me.

"Of course, Sally. My apologies--you remind me of an old friend."

"Then I'm flattered." her smile broadened; I matched it while I tried to better assess her age. She appeared perhaps older than I, but her energy was distinctly more youthful than my own.

She was smiling; I was smiling--there was altogether a surfeit of smiling.

"So...?" I prompted, drawing out the vowel into a pause, allowing her the sound space in which to interject her reasons for greeting me. She did not take advantage of this. "How are the animals liking their new home?"

"Oh, they've settled in very well. We had some lion cubs born this past summer."

"Wonderful," I said and I needn't have contrived any of my pleasure at that news. My reasons for having sponsored much of the new park's construction was for this very reason--they needed more room for the large animals and their related breeding programs. When I was a child, lions had still lived in the wild. Now none remained. "I'm very glad to hear it, you must all be quite pleased."

"I'm sure we could arrange a private meeting, if you wanted to come down and see them."

"Thank you, that's very generous of you."

"Ah, but not as generous as you've been with the Park. We couldn't have done it without your support."

I disregarded my urge to grimace and turn away in discomfort. "It's the least I can do. I respect the work you're all doing there."

"It means a lot to us that there are people like you," she said seriously, "who value our work as much as you do. Otherwise, we'd be struggling to keep any animals, the conservation work would be next to impossible in most cases..."

I sensed Sally was building momentum in her praise of my donations to the park--and that was all that I'd done really. I'd not devoted any substantial time or effort. I'd given them money, something I had in abundance. If I were as committed as she believed, I'd quit my job and go to work in Africa.

"...so really I should be the one thanking you, since--"

"You're welcome, Sally." I offered an apologetic smile. "I don't wish to be rude, but I really must be on my way. I have guests coming tonight."

"Oh, of course, forgive me for keeping you. It was nice to see you again, Quatre."

"Likewise," I said with an inclination of my head, let out the breath I'd been holding, and steered my cart away with as much coordination as the contraption would allow me.

It was disorienting, trying to find the items on my list amidst the crowds and confusion. After some trial and error of different shopping strategies, I ended up pausing at the end of each aisle, studying the sign which informed shoppers of what they would find on its shelves and then perusing my list to make certain I wouldn't have to backtrack later. I'd already had to go back for several items and had received glares from impatient shoppers in whose way I repeatedly placed myself.

I made only one extraneous purchase when I got stuck behind a traffic jam of carts and stock clerks. Waiting, I contemplated the art and school supplies littering the shelves beside me. I picked up a small box of coloured pencils and a sketchpad for the android. He'd maintained his initial curiosity about art, perhaps he might like to try creating his own drawings. His aptitude for food preparation had been a pleasant surprise, and the dishes he cooked were improving considerably with each iteration.

In the finish my food gathering efforts satisfied me. I was most pleased that (despite any other difficulties I had encountered) I had managed to find each item on my list without once having to resort to asking for assistance. Upon my return home Trowa met me at the door--as had become his habit over the past week--and relieved me of my briefcase before helping me carry the grocery bags to the kitchen.

He didn't speak a greeting to me immediately, nor I to him. Yes, it had become a routine, but not the most comfortable sort. I'd not had to share my living space with anyone else for such a long time, and I'd never owned an android of any make for any purpose at any time in the past. My feelings regarding Trowa's presence in my home remained a tangle of uncomfortable ambivalence.

Part of me enjoyed having the company. Talking to Trowa, answering his occasional questions entertained me. He had a childlike curiosity with (at least some of) the mental sophistication of an adult and the occasional insight of a wholly unique being. Such a convincing illusion he provided, of consciousness, of mind, of genuine feeling, I could easily enjoy interacting with him in many ways.

However, an illusion it was. Of this I was reminded by details both small and large. The first time he'd gone into my bathroom, he'd been terribly confused by the geometric tiles, the mirrors and glass panels. It had never occurred to me that this would cause him distress, but his vision was that of a robot, governed by algorithms with weaknesses that could be overwhelmed by too much ambiguity of data.

I'd discovered Trowa groping the walls and other surfaces like a blind man, and in that environment, until he'd oriented himself using his sense of touch in co-operation with his visual processors, he had been, effectively, blind. The sight had horrified rather than amused me: to see a machine's failings manifest in such a gross travesty of a human handicap.

The contrast between that moment of Trowa's limitations and his usual seeming competence continued to disrupt my comfort. I grew more aware than ever that he was an absolute black box--who could tell what functioned beneath the surface of his pseudo humanity? Not even the people who built him understood the entirety of what allowed the android to behave well enough to fool the gullible.

Or at least the people who chose to be fooled. I still did not believe I could permit myself that choice.

I watched Trowa as he began to remove items from the brown paper sack and set them on the black granite counter. His movements as he did so were precise and graceful. It was somewhat mesmerizing to watch the repeated journey of his hand between bag and counter. "Duo rang a few minutes ago. He and Heero will be approximately half an hour late," Trowa informed me.

"Thank you," I replied and let my gaze linger on the android. He had put on some of the new clothes I'd gotten for him and looked deceptively ordinary in the coffee coloured slacks and cream turtleneck sweater. However, the nubbly texture of the wool contrasted sharply with the luster of his skin, the perfection of which remained a persistent reminder that he was not at all ordinary.

The bags I carried contained cold and frozen items so I opened the fridge and began to unpack. My lonely tub of ice cream soon had company, and the shelves of my small refrigerator quickly filled with fresh vegetables and cheeses, assorted colourful jars and tiny packets.

When I turned back to face Trowa, I saw he'd found the coloured pencils. He held the slim box and appeared to be reading the back of it.

"Those are for you," I said, folding the paper bag I'd emptied. "There's a pad of drawing paper to go with them."  
"You wish for me to draw with these?"

"I thought you might enjoy... well, find the process interesting."

"All right. Thank you, Quatre."

"You're welcome. Now, shall we start dinner?"

"Yes." Trowa set the pencils aside with the sketchpad and proceeded to get out the chopping board and knives.

Strange that as much as I habitually disliked cooking, I had been looking forward to preparing this meal for the past few days, for I knew neither myself, nor the android could do it alone. Where I lacked technical skill and enthusiasm for the chore, the primary limitation of Trowa's cooking was his inability to judge the quality of what he prepared. He could taste, but the sense was crude and unrefined. He required a great deal of guidance in this area, and thus for meal preparation, I had consented to taste the food at different stages, answer his questions, give my opinions. It was either this or I should resign myself to the standard of bland meals he had concocted earlier in the week.

For bland was the most generous description of the eggplant fritters Trowa had made that first night. I'd assumed, based upon what I knew of domestic android models, that when Trowa said yes, he could indeed cook, it implied a degree of sophistication in the skill. Thus I had left the android alone in my kitchen while I retired to my study.

Trowa, it seemed, was not the only one who needed to develop greater wisdom; I'd discovered this while forcing myself through my first serving of android-improvised cuisine. In retrospect it had been an unwise presumption, but I had encouraged him to improvise with whatever he found in my kitchen.

Truly, I didn't mind helping the android learn to cook, for I learned things too. And I also trusted that by helping him, I helped myself. At the end of this learning period, his tastes in food would be tailored precisely to my own, in a manner far more consistent than that which either myself, or any human chef, could attain.

Tonight however, we planned something for Duo's tastes: an authentic lasagna. Duo had spent some time in his youth in Italy and frequently bemoaned the particular difficulty in finding a good rendition of this dish. I was eager to surprise my friend.

In the pursuit of this surprise, I wanted Trowa to teach me how to chop onions the way he did. Onions were something I utterly loathed prepping on those occasions I did cook, but Trowa made short work of them, wielding the heavy chef's knife with a speed and agility to match the finest of human culinary artists, and I envied his inhuman efficiency.

He showed me first, by slowing down the action and drawing my attention to the way he held the knife--with his thumb and forefinger gripping the blade itself--and the way he held the onion with his other hand--with his fingers curled out of the path of the knife so that his knuckles served as a guide for the blade.

It looked so easy when he did it.

But easy it was not. After a few bungled attempts and an exercise of my less sophisticated vocabulary, Trowa moved behind me and placed his hands over my own. "Patience is your ally in this, Quatre," he soothed.

I was not soothed; my hands trembled under his steady ones. His fingers, his hands were warm--warmer than they should be, warmer than I remembered them.

"Your muscles have to learn the action, and that won't happen immediately," he continued in that smooth, rational voice of his. At this moment it both infuriated me and--I'm embarrassed to admit--aroused me. Artificial or not, the proximity of his body, also warm and perfectly hard pressed against my back, and that silken voice... it was... distracting.

"Show off," I muttered. He ignored me.

"Like this," he said. His lips were so close to my cheek, if I turned my head just a few degrees...

No.

Trowa guided my hands and the knife over the onion half on the chopping board, and I tried to pay attention despite the blood loss my brain had sustained.

Half a bag of badly abused onions later, I opened a bottle of wine and left the chopping to Trowa.

"So what did you do today?" I asked him over the edge of my glass.

"I watched several films in your video database. I catalogued many conventions used in the British spy film genre."

"They wouldn't be the same without them." I tilted my glass in a solitary toast to the creators of such escapism and took a sip. "Did you learn anything?"

"Women find well-dressed secret agents irresistible, and European car manufacturers would do better business if they installed missile launchers in their vehicles."

I laughed. Was the android meaning to be funny? I couldn't tell from his expression. "Those films are pure male fantasy, Trowa, so don't take it as truth beyond that."

He paused as if to ask me a further question, but then simply nodded and turned his attention to another task.

By the time we moved on to making dessert we had managed to dirty every pot and pan I owned. But the baking lasagna filled the kitchen with mouth-watering smells; a green salad sparkled, clad in a freshly made vinaigrette; and my fruit bowl had been pressed into service as an impromptu bread basket. I was nearly ready to declare our efforts a success, but did not want to endanger dessert preparations so I merely complimented Trowa on his growing skill.

My crisis of onion-mangling confidence had recovered enough that I wanted to contribute something other than my human sensory perceptions of the food, and so I offered to whip the cream. It was something even I couldn't botch, I assured Trowa. Nevertheless I took my self assigned task seriously, occasionally bending low over my mixing bowl, intent on catching the cream the very second it reached perfection.

"Quatre." Trowa spoke loudly enough to be heard over the whir of the hand-mixer, and I felt a light touch on my shoulder blade.

"Yes?" I shut of the appliance, dipping its beaters in and out of the thickened cream a few times--floppy peaks formed before their shape oozed back into the uniform body of the cream. "Am I over-beating it?" I didn't think so.

"Look at me, please?" the android asked, and I lifted my head.

I watched his hand approaching my face and stopped breathing; a giddy knot of apprehension tied and untied repeatedly in my stomach. It took all my willpower not to pull away as a fingertip flicked over my cheekbone followed by a careless caress of other fingers from my cheek to my jaw. For a scant moment, my body betrayed my mind, and I indulged his touch with a sharp intake of breath and a slow blink.

It was only the second time Trowa had touched my bare flesh--the first had been my hands this same evening. Cool and silky, his light touch felt like satin ribbons on my skin. But I caught myself before I leaned my cheek into his palm. Instead I pulled away, banishing my momentary disorientation with a blink.

His index finger appeared near my lips as if offering me the pale dollop of cream smeared over its tip. I glanced at it, and then at his eyes. His verdant gaze, inscrutable as always, left plenty of opportunity for me to assume amusement on his part. Involuntarily, I ran my tongue over my bottom lip before quickly ceasing that action and biting my lip hard to forestall any further facial fidgeting.

Slowly his finger retreated and he wiped the cream off on his apron. A frown fluttered across his features, and he turned back to stirring the melting chocolate. "You've not over-beaten it."

The next few moments contained many silent reminders to myself that Trowa was not human, couldn't possibly be amused or offended by virtue of having only simulated emotions, and that it made about as much sense to feel flustered by or around him as it did to feel flustered by my entertainment unit.

Even with that admonishment, my hands still trembled along with the too rapid fluttering of my heart, but my voice remained even. "So when I've finished the cream, shall I do something else? Sift the flour?"

"You might like to change your shirt before your friends arrive."

I looked down at my shirt, and cursed. The dark burgundy was spattered with various sized specks of white. "Next time, apron," I muttered.

The door chime rang.


	5. Chapter 4: Dinner with Friends

I opened to door to Duo's smiling face and his android's very... Unsmiling one, was my initial impression. "Hi," I said, smiling at them both and hoping my harried flush had diminished. "Come in." I swung the door open further and dabbed, as discreetly as I could, at the splatters of cream on my shirt with the dampened corner of a tea towel.

"Hey, buddy," Duo said, hoisting a six pack of imported beer in his hand as he comes in. "I brought beer."

Heero followed him inside, but the android did not speak to me. He simply observed my foyer, his cool gaze sliding over the accent table and the antique landscape photographs hanging in a triad above it, the iron coat-rack opposite, and the hand woven Chinese rug upon the hardwood floor. I received only a cursory inspection, but I openly studied him, curious to see what Catherine had designed for Duo.

Heero was exotic looking: Asian-Japanese maybe-but for his colouring: brown hair and blue eyes, so he ended up looking like a cross-cultural blend. I remembered that one of Duo's past boyfriends had been Korean, another Chinese American, and a third Afghani. So this was consistent with Duo's predilection for exotic looking men. But Heero's features were also very sharp-intense-which I found a surprising contrast to Duo's smiling affability and still somewhat adolescent looks.

"So where's yours?" Duo asks.

"My...?"

"Your android, I want to see him."

"Oh," I said, "Trowa's in the kitchen." I made a gesture for Duo to precede me into the kitchen. "I've opened a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, so put the beer in the fridge."

Heero remained standing, motionless now, in my foyer.

"You can go sit down in the living room if you want," I told Heero.

"Holy shit!" I heard from the kitchen-Duo's voice.

I grinned at Duo's exclamation, and Heero looked at me blandly. I pointed as if directing a dog, "In there," I told him. "Go sit down."

"You must be Quatre's friend, Duo," I heard Trowa say.

"Damn, Q. I always did say you had better taste than me. He's fucking gorgeous."

Relieved to see Heero at last move, marching stiffly into the living room, I headed to the kitchen, before Duo could do anything typically Duo-like with or to my android.

Duo had Trowa backed against the counter, and he'd scooped up Trowa's hair from his face to study his features. Trowa didn't seem to be taking offense, but I didn't like it. It looked wrong, like Trowa was some kind of victim. I didn't care if he didn't care. I didn't like it when Duo puts his shoes on my sofa either.

"Don't touch him like that," I said to Duo, sounding more peevish than I meant to. Then I cast a glance over the bar to see that Heero had indeed taken a seat. I tried smiling at him; he stared back at me. I looked away, back to Duo. Maybe Heero wasn't accustomed to meeting Duo's friends. Or maybe his functionality really was that limited.

"Feeling possessive already, eh?" Duo asked as he left off his poking at Trowa. He grinned at me, while Trowa, in a very human looking gesture of vanity, finger combed his hair back into its usual style.

"Hey, what smells good?" Duo asked, peering into the darkened wall oven. "Did you finally hire a new chef?"

"No. Not yet. Trowa helped me cook tonight. It's lasagna."

"You made lasagna?"

"Well... like I said, Trowa helped." I glanced at Trowa, who had truly done most of the work. I'd only provided my tongue for tasting and a supervisory role. But Trowa didn't object to my words.

"Still." Duo flicked on the oven light to take a closer look. "I'm impressed. It even looks right."

Trowa remained silent, standing by the counter where Duo had left him and watching us.

"Why don't you go sit with Heero, Trowa? He's Duo's android. He's, um, he's like you."

Trowa inclined his head and untied his apron. "All right, Quatre," he said and neatly hung the apron on the hook by the fridge. I watched him go and couldn't help but think Heero really didn't seem all that much like Trowa. Not to me.

"Actually," Duo said, straightening from his oven inspection. "Heero's the previous model. Yours is the latest. Better skin simulation and some techy algorithm shit I can't remember."

Duo grabbed his beer from the counter and opened the fridge to stow it while I fetched a couple of wine glasses and poured us each a glass. Over the counter I could see Trowa next to Heero on the sofa. The two androids had their heads turned to face one another, and just sat, regarding each other in some wordless robotic exchange.

"I was thinking I might trade in Heero for an upgrade when the next new model comes out-you can do that, you know. Anthrotech provides lifetime support and upgrades."

"That's nice to know," I replied. I was more interested in the androids though. They seemed so absorbed in looking at each other. Then I saw Trowa's mouth move. He was asking Heero something. I couldn't quite make out the words, but the intonation was clear.

"So, how are you enjoy-?" Duo started.

But with a wave of my hand in his direction, I shushed him. "Look at them, Duo," I gestured toward Heero and Trowa. "They're talking."

Duo chuckled, coming up next to me and taking his glass from the counter top. "Maybe they're sharing sex tips?"

I raised an eyebrow and shook my head.

"Hey," Duo whispered to me, epiphany in his utterance. He jerked his head in their direction.

The talking looked like it was turning into an actual conversation, a scene which impressed me with its surrealism. Heero nodded to something Trowa said, and Trowa smiled his odd little half smile before speaking again.

"Do you think we could get them to have sex with each other?" Duo said.

"What?" I turned to look at him. He wanted to stage live robot porn in my living room? "Are there any perversions you don't pursue?" I asked dryly, collecting my wine glass and taking a long swallow. "You're not using my PA to indulge your fetishes, Duo."

"I'm sure they'd do it for us." He waggled his eyebrows in what I supposed was meant to be a cajoling gesture of, 'Hey, Q, you old fart, relax and have a little harmless fun!'.

It did not make me feel more inclined to play along, however. It disturbed me. "Duo..." I protested.

He gave me his 'You are an old fart, you know' eye roll and grin, and then called out to Heero. "Hey, Heero, come here for a minute."

"I said, no."

Duo ignored me, and Heero approached. He entered the kitchen his attention fixed with expectation on Duo.

"Heero, this is my friend, Quatre," Duo said to him. "You should say hello to him. This is his home."

"Hello, Quatre," Heero dutifully said to me.

"Hi, Heero," I said, glancing at Duo to see what he was up to.

"What do you want?" Heero asked Duo.

I stifled a chuckle with another sip of wine.

Duo laughed too. "He's not nearly as courteous as yours, is he?"

"You like rude men?" I asked.

"Apparently," Duo answered. Then to Heero he said, "What were you and Trowa talking about?"

"He asked me how often you use me for sex."

I blinked, and my gut twisted in a peculiar, not quite nauseated manner. "He asked that?"

Duo chuckled. "Maybe yours isn't so polite after all," Duo said to me, and then again to Heero he spoke, "What did you tell him, Heero?"

"Everything," Heero said seriously.

Duo laughed, and slapped the android on his (very nicely formed, I noticed) arse. "Bullshit," Duo said. To me, he clarified, "I told you he's sarcastic. They have blocks in their communication algorithms, to keep them from ratting out the details of their owner's private lives."

"Yeah?" The supposed joke didn't seem very funny to me.

A quizzical look answered me. "You haven't read Trowa's manual have you?"

"Um, no, not really."

"Typical." Duo shook his head. "That's all, Heero. Go sit down again," Duo said.

Heero returned to the living room.

Duo watched him for a few moments before addressing me. "Well, just 'cause they don't talk about it, doesn't mean we can't. How are you enjoying Trowa? He's pretty hot, and those hands... I bet he's good with them." Duo leered at me over the rim of his wine glass.

"I haven't used him like that," I said, leaning back against the counter and glancing down at my shoes. There was a blob of cream drying on the toe of one. Why would Trowa have asked Heero that?

"You haven't fucked him, or...?"

"No." I felt myself scowling. Duo tonight, rather than being a companionable presence was becoming an irksome one. I didn't want to talk about this with him. I never did, really, but especially not now. I sighed. But Trowa, on the other hand, was curious about Duo's sexual habits. I was surrounded by two perverts-and an antisocial, sarcastic, and entirely not funny Heero.

"Why the hell not?"

I shrugged, wondering what I could say to get Duo to abandon interrogating me. "It doesn't feel right," I replied. "He's not real, Duo. He's a machine."

"Yes, Quatre, you're right. He's a high tech sex toy. How many girls do you think court their vibrators?"

But Duo, being Duo, would of course drag me into this conversation whether I liked it or not. I didn't like it when he took that patronising tone with me either. "That's not the point. It's not the same. I'm not... I'm not courting him, anyway."

"Good-since he's a sure thing. But what the hell are you doing with him then?"

"He knows how to cook. Sort of. So I'm helping him develop that skill. He's the one who really made dinner. I only helped." I smiled this time. Cooking with Trowa had been fun tonight. "And he likes art," I said. Ah, yes, this was more interesting than robotic sex. My android liked art.

"Maybe you should introduce him to edible body paints," said Duo.

"Oh, for the love of-" I ran a hand through my head and glared at the ceiling in exasperation. Sometimes I forgot how hard it was to have a real discussion about anything with Duo.

"Okay, fine. I get it. No pressure, he's yours, do with him what you want. Just, come on-cooking? If I'd meant to get you a domestic model, Quatre, I would have."

I let out the breath I'd been holding and set my glass aside. Returning his earnest look from beneath my bangs, I matched his serious tone. "I don't understand why my sex life matters to you so god damned much."

"Because your life matters to me, buddy."

Not this again. I crossed my arms over my chest and chilled my gaze. "I'm fine, perfectly happy and content with my lot, you know."

"So you say, but I'm not fooled that easily. Give me a little credit."

"Credit for what exactly?"

"Knowing you, being able to tell when you're about to explode from frustration, and having a clue about how to help you bleed off some of that pressure."

"And you think sex is the solution."

Duo shrugged. "Why not?"

"God's sake, Duo. Why is everything about sex with you?"

"The same reason you're such a prude?"

"Just because my existence doesn't revolve around my cock..."

"I have other hobbies," Duo said. "But it still doesn't change the fact that you need a good fuck."

"I like to think I'm a little more evolved than that, Duo."

"Think what you like."

We fell silent. It wasn't antagonistic, but nor was it exactly amicable either. Duo studied me, his expression fallen into something more like sincerity.

"Seriously. Cooking?" he asked, this time not so much mocking as saddened. Disappointed? It was at least more sympathetic.

I smiled sheepishly. "Yeah."

"Look, Q. I'm sorry, really." He slumped against the counter next to me, and smiled. "I thought it'd be a good gift for you. If you want to exchange him for a domestic, I won't be offended. Promise."

"Thanks."

"Think about it," he said. "But before you decide on anything, will you do me a favour?"

"Maybe. Depends."

"Let him touch you-it doesn't have to be sex if you don't want-just see what it's like."

I shook my head. "You know, it's funny. I don't actually know if he wants to. He hasn't really tried to."

"Nah." Duo shook his head. "He can't want or not want to-he is a machine. He does as he's programmed, and since he's programmed for you, maybe the hard-to-get thing is to get you more worked up?"

"I doubt it. None of my past partners were that coy."

"And exactly how many of them did you not break up with?"

"None of them."

"See?"

"See what?" I asked, deliberate in my obtuseness.

"The PA's are designed to appeal to your deeper- even unconscious-desires, so maybe this is significant to you, having a sexual partner who's not so selfish or controlling?"

"Maybe. I-" I broke off. Trowa approached just as the kitchen timer beeped.

For a time conversation revolved around action: Trowa asking me where he might find a trivet for the hot casserole dish, Duo complimenting us on a dinner that looked credibly edible, Heero being asked to sit at the dining table. It was a relief to make small talk with Duo and to talk about things of a less personal nature. I asked him after his week at work, and we discussed current affairs. The food had turned out well too. Duo deemed the lasagna a very good first effort, but he thought the sauce could have used more garlic, and the layers should have been thinner and more numerous. He also recommended the use of fresh pasta rather than the dried stuff.

I excused myself to get a second bottle of wine. When I returned, I found Trowa addressing Heero. "What do you think of this painting, The Death of Socrates?" he asked. It hung in my dining room, a reproduction of the 1787 Jaques-Louis David painting.

The other android turned his head to view the painting. He studied it for a time. "It depicts Socrates about to drink hemlock."

"Do you find it beautiful?" Trowa asked, all childlike inquisitiveness. It made me smile.

"It's art. Its purpose is to be beautiful," replied Heero flatly.

"It's also an image of defiance in the face of futility and doom," Trowa said, and I suppressed an odd swell of pride. I hadn't explained this painting to Trowa when he asked, but had left him to research it and form his own impression. And he had. "Do you find that beautiful?" he pressed Heero.

"I don't know how I would make that determination."

"What about you, Duo? What do you think of the painting?"

Duo emptied his wine glass before he answered. "I don't think Q acquires any art not called 'The Death of some Greek dude'. He's quite mad, you know." Then Duo winked at me and held his glass for me to fill.

"I've also noted repeated themes of death in Quatre's collection, what do you think of this painting?" Trowa addressed this question to Duo.

"It's morbid. Especially when he hangs one of the damned things in his dining room. Although, I've always thought this one was strangely appropriate."

I laughed as I returned my napkin to my lap and scooted in my chair.

"In what way do you find it appropriate, Duo?" Trowa asked.

"It's a good metaphor for the way many of us feel about Q's cooking."

"The people in the painting appear to be afraid and sad."

"You got it in one."

Trowa frowned.

I placed a hand on the android's forearm and said, "He's making a joke at my expense, Trowa. Don't worry about it."

"You like looking at Q's art, huh, Trowa?" Duo asked.

"Yes, I do."

"You should check out the ones he's got hidden in the back of his closet."

"Duo..." I warned. I could easily anticipate where Duo was going with this.

"Yes, Quatre...?" Duo asked sweetly.

Heero ignored everyone, and Trowa smiled his little half-smile at me. I wondered if that was becoming his new default expression. I hoped not. His looking at me like that all the time would be disconcerting at best.

"Why do you hide art in your closet?" Trowa asked.

"It's not hidden. I don't have room for it all on the walls," I explained to Trowa.

"What about the vintage porn, Q? Or that creepy Dutch one?" Duo asked me.

"I'd like to see the art in your closet, Quatre," Trowa said.

"Fine. Sure," I said to Trowa. "Not now though." My prior excitement and pride for Trowa's curiosity was dwindling into impatience.

"Quatre bought me coloured pencils today," Trowa said to Duo.

I saw Duo's brain working on that one, trying to turn it into some sort of dirty comment or sexual innuendo. I was grateful when he came up blank, and simply asked, "What for?"

"Well," I explained, waving a forkful of lasagna for emphasis. "I thought he might like to try drawing."

Duo gave me another one his looks, this one I identified as the 'Quatre, you are a dumb ass moron' look.

"You said Heero builds your models," I said, a little defensively. "And you said you like to talk him."

"He doesn't talk back or pester me with questions. And the models are a mechanical thing. Nothing creative."

"So what do you think that signifies about your unconscious desires?" I asked him.

"He's a machine. A machine. You know, like your entertainment unit."

"There's much more complexity in my neural net than in the programming of Quatre's entertainment system," Trowa interjected.

I laughed. Trowa took my cue and smiled his full smile. Duo looked flummoxed. Heero was actually paying attention now, though he said nothing.

"Whatever," said Duo, and changed the topic of conversation to the new Aston Martin DB9.

The rest of the evening passed pleasantly and uneventfully, though the oddity of a dinner party with half of those in attendance being AI's persisted. Trowa helped me clean up after Duo and Heero left. I didn't try to engage him in conversation again. Too many things were causing me discomfort: Trowa's touch in the kitchen, what he'd talked about with Heero, Duo's insistence that I try using him, Heero's perfunctory personality-if one could even call it a personality.

I went to bed without wishing Trowa a good night.

And somehow I felt like a stranger in my own bedroom. The feeling had been persisting and worsening since Trowa had arrived. I think I was even getting used to my nightly ritual of silent undressing and nervous anticipation. Tonight was worse than usual. It had reminded me too much of my Trowa's purpose.

Part of my mind rebelled at the designation 'my'. But as Duo had pointed out, like my computer, entertainment system, and other technological gadgets, Trowa was my possession.

After the sounds of friends, food, and entertainment, the air felt unnaturally still, unnaturally quiet, with every sound I made jarring and abrupt: The skid of an opening drawer as I selected a pair of pyjamas hung in the room. The low gravelly hiss of my zipper, I was sure, echoed down the hall. I wondered now, as I had wondered on each of the six nights previous: How keen was the android's hearing?

I moved stealthily, breathed shallowly, and winced at the fwhump my bedding made when I pulled back the sheet, blankets, and duvet. "Lights off," I whispered, and the room fell into darkness. I remained preternaturally aware of the thud of my heart, the rasp of my breath, and the hrush of my limbs shifting under the covers. My fingers curled around the top of my sheets as if I were a child afraid of the dark, and my ears strained for any hint of any sound not having myself as its origin. What did Trowa do after I'd gone to bed? Watch the vid? I couldn't make out the mumble of voices or muted threads of music.

Would tonight be different? Would he come to me tonight?

No, surely not after I'd asked him to leave me alone at night, or at least to not sleep with me or use my bedroom. But that wasn't the same as being left alone. Would he hear me tossing and turning with my breath too rapid and irregular for sleep and assume I wanted him to come to me? And why hadn't he offered? I didn't buy Duo's explanation-that the coy act was meant to attract me more. Trowa said he knew his purpose, so why hadn't he made some kind of overt pass at me, or at least a polite offer of sexual gratification. Of course I would decline, but wasn't that what he was for? Not talking about art or asking uncomfortable questions or cooking, but-to put it bluntly-fucking?

And that unwittingly led my mind to so many possibilities. If I did use Trowa, how would I use him? Previous sexual partners of mine had preferred my submission for the most part. I believed it had something to do with them feeling intimidated by my social stature, and since I didn't like the thought of overwhelming my partners, I allowed them more control in the bedroom than would be my strict preference.

With Trowa I had no need to fear this-him feeling somehow inferior or powerless next to me. With Trowa, I could explore possibilities.

My imagination was assailed by images of Trowa-naked, willing, and tempting... so tempting.

But, no, he wasn't willing. Not really. It was an illusion, and what would be the point of taking advantage of a machine programmed to submit to my desires?

What would be the point? My pleasure, I supposed. Yes, that was Trowa's primary function-attending to my pleasure. However, the idea of a programmed lover rather than a willing one (no matter how convincing the simulation), brought me no pleasure to contemplate.

No. I didn't want to use Trowa for sex. I felt like a deviant for even letting myself imagine it. I really should consider exchanging or returning Trowa. I would search through the Anthrotech catalogue of Domestic Android models in the morning to find something better suited to the tasks for which I was using Trowa.

That decision was enough return me to my senses. I relaxed enough for sleep.


	6. Chapter 5: A Day Out

Saturday morning was clear and cool, though the acrid scent of the night's smog lingered on, a bitter burn in my sinuses and throat. It was early enough that the streets were quiescent. What traffic there was, moved smoothly and orderly; no horns or squealing breaks disrupted my walk. I had woken this morning with the need to be out, not out at work, for that was too much like routine to constitute being truly 'out', but out of my habitual and familiar surroundings. I needed to think, and it had been a while since I had walked the streets this early on a Saturday.

When I was studying, I used to walk to the City Fine Arts Museum for study breaks. The peaceful atmosphere celebrating beauty always soothed me then, so I let my feet take me there this morning.

With a spike of morning verve, I took the broad stone steps two at a time, kept my momentum to trot between the grand marble pillars, only to be halted momentarily by the heavy brass doors, which required a strong push. Passing into the building, the change in the sound of my footfalls heralded my arrival; the tap of my leather soles bounced from the stone floor to the high arched ceiling and marble walls, and then vanished. I relished the way those timid echoes sought to become noise, but in vain. The expanse of the space swallowed them up in cavernous silence, an auditory experience I associated with more than one museum, but only with museums. The muffled reverberations were part of what soothed me, part of what I always liked about coming here. I could close my eyes and imagine being underground, in some grand cathedral of a cave, the other sounds of the museum smeared together into murmur, not unlike the murmur of water over rock.

I'd never actually gone spelunking, but I remembered well how much I longed to travel to places such as Luray caverns when I was a boy. My father would not take me. He said I would be disappointed: he explained to me how much of the drama in the photographs was special effects-lenses, lighting, and computer enhancement. The stalactites weren't really so colourful and grand.

Later I learned the colours were natural, and my father had been wrong, but I was no longer a boy then. Now that I think back to my youth, I think he simply did not want to make the time to take me.

I slid my debit chit into the reader near the door and made a donation, an anonymous and generous one. The museum was free to the public, and I preferred to see it stay that way.

An array of banners upon the wall over the archway leading into the Mediterranean Antiquities halls proclaimed a recent renovation of that section. And, the banners informed me, to celebrate the renovation, the Elgin Marbles were on loan from the British Museum this month. Decision made, I went that way.

There, I took my time, first among the ancient Minoan artifacts, for they were among my favourite exhibits in the museum. I enjoyed the vast antiquity of the pieces, the anonymity of the subjects and the artists, and the way the art was like a time machine, bringing an unknowable past into the present for one to apprehend its echoes. The grace and the joy, the beauty and the majesty of a long dead people preserved.

As I gazed upon the elaborately decorated amphorae and vases and friezes, I thought about who had made these items. Not in abstract, as we often do, but of the anonymous individuals who lived in this culture at the very beginning of our Western civilisation. They, those artists, were among the first to create art for the sake of beauty and pleasure, not only for political or religious purposes.

Much of the art was playful and whimsical-a cat stalked a bird, a woman strolled down the street, youths played at Bull Jumping. I tried to imagine the artists: Were they male or female? Young or old? How did they feel about their art? How did they come to this fundamental change of making these images not to elevate their leaders or celebrate their gods, but to show the beauty of their human day-to-day existence. And did they understand the longevity of their art? Did they have any inkling that thousands of years into an unimaginable future, men such as myself would look upon their works and wonder?

If they did know, would they have felt sorrow at the loss of their names, or simply be pleased that their work remained? I liked to linger in this understanding, that at one time art was only functional, and then, somehow, it made this transition to being simply for aesthetics. It seemed such an intrinsic part of being human, this desire to create, to create things that remain beyond us, to create things of beauty.

Silently, I thanked the anonymous individuals of ancient Crete, and I mourned briefly the brevity of their culture. I moved on, passing through the Mycenae displays, intent now on seeing the broken, but still beautiful marble cladding of Athen's Parthenon.

Here the weight of time was even greater, though the work itself was younger. The Elgin Marbles, saved from neglect and further destruction by their namesake, the 7th Earl of Elgin. Perhaps the time weighed more heavily upon these works because of this-because they were so very close to having been lost to us.

The figures depicted, despite the damage leaving them faceless and ragged, were so exquisite, so lifelike, I waited, breathless for Bacchus or Athena to stir, and step from the marble to the floor, to speak and tell me of their ancient city. The hand of a human shaped these figures. Just a human, living in a world without technology or galleries of the past thousands of years' art to inspire him. In the contemporary, we were so deeply rooted in the context of our cultural history; it was difficult to imagine having been the first.

I also experienced time when I came to the panel upon which Keats had meditated when he composed his famous, "Ode on a Grecian Urn". To think these marbles were in London, and Keats had sat, roughly where I stood (relative to this view anyway) and thought upon art and truth and beauty and what it meant to create art.

He understood well the function of art in time, for he was not at the beginning as was the creator of the marbles. He was much later in the timeline, closer to me, but distant enough for it to give me a heady rush to have this mode of connecting myself to the long dead poet.

Legacy as creation, not just of children-as was the default evolutionarily programmed instinct-but more enduring creations strove for human immortality. And here that legacy rested, preserved in silent stone. Even chipped and faceless, the gods and goddesses of Olympus reigned over the hall, over the frozen procession in their honor. So vibrant were the horses, prancing, tossing their heads, a shadow of movement haunted their forms. Remnants of colour yet nestled in the folds of chiseled and polished clothing.

"'When old age shall this generation waste, Thou--' Yes, _thou_. '--shalt remain,'" I murmured. This was the closest a human could achieve to immortality.

And what had I created to persevere beyond me? Business was my 'art', though I felt my own nose wrinkle at the thought of business having much to do with concepts as abstract as truth and beauty. My contributions were likely to fall into anonymity, whatever might survive me. Funding the development of technology and education in the developing world was hardly an achievement one signs anyhow. I wasn't doing it to be remembered anyway.

I supposed neither were the sculptors and builders of the Parthenon. Their art was to elevate the gods and their fellow citizens, not themselves. However, there remained, within me at least, a persistent unease at my own mortality. Since father died, the status of my own life had seemed more fragile. There had been more urgency to do what mattered. To create in the face of death-that shade of the impending, always impending, entropy and destruction of time. Our feeble human efforts to endure mattered only to ourselves. The universe would swallow us regardless of striving. One day none of this would remain. That was truer than Keats' beauty.

Such vanity had humans! I walked from the marbles, idly making my way through exhibits encasing the vestiges of classical civilisation, rested my eyes upon the ideals of human beauty wrought in stone, painted upon clay.

I smiled and thought of Trowa: a modern ideal of human beauty. My ideal. My vanity?

He surely could stand among these statues. My mind's eye painted him alabaster, set him posed upon a pedestal. Beautiful, I could not deny he was. He was created as surely as the art here. I wondered when Trowa's current fascination with art might turn inward, to see himself as such a creation. My smile turned to a soft, self-conscious laugh. Was the created pursuing creativity with his coloured pencils even as I walked these halls?

What would he create? Surely art was a vessel for human desires and insecurities. What such things would Trowa desire or fear? Not being alive, there was no death or end of existence for him to fear. He was, himself, the vessel. He was Keats' Urn, the artifact that preserves and contains something human.

So what did my Trowa contain? He was more than a sculpture, so did he represent something more than human vanity? Or was he human vanity brought to its most extreme (and potentially absurd) conclusion? Had the vanity that created Trowa exceeded itself and become arrogance now?

Or was he truly nothing more than a fancied up sex toy? Perhaps artifacts like Trowa were a sign that our society had become decadent. Fucking a human being was no longer sufficient to our ideals. We need something more, something better and more beautiful than a human. A being with no function but to be beautiful and pleasing to the sexual appetites.

Was that arrogance, vanity, decadence, or simple debauchery?

Maybe we humans were just too lazy and self-indulgent now. Trust and intimacy with another human had become too complicated and time consuming in our post-post-modern lives. An android designed for the gratification of its owner required no reciprocity. Instead of cultivating a relationship, taking the time and effort to care for another being, we could buy the illusion of affection and love.

It was vanity. After all, the androids were tailored for us. We could fall into fascination with our own desires made manifest in silicon and latex. Narcissus in the lake.

Even me? It wasn't like I was inclined to put in the time and effort required for a lasting human relationship, at least not one with any degree of intimacy and risk. Was it instead that we-that I-had become so alienated and suspicious that it was impossible for me to trust any longer? Duo had bought me something I could trust in a way I could not trust a human companion.

Ironic that this latest iteration of Western civilsation was at once making humans less human and machines more human. Maybe one day technology and biology would converge and we would no longer recognise a difference? Androids were certainly a step in that direction: simulation so clever it fooled the very thing it simulated.

After the museum, I walked the streets again, to take advantage of the sunshine. My lifestyle had become sedentary enough, that the movement of walking refreshed and invigorated me. I remembered I had bought myself a membership at a gym within the past year. My intentions had been honourable. I committed to going four days a week. That had lasted for three weeks.

I hailed a cab and went there now, following a sudden whim to sweat and make my muscles burn. The gym was as I remembered it, and I was grateful to myself that I had left a freshly laundered set of exercise gear in my locker there. It smelled a little musty, but it was at least the musty of forgotten clean clothes, and not mouldering sweat.

I could not remember the routine my then personal trainer had arranged for me, so I wandered about the array of weight machines for a time to refamiliarise myself. I discreetly observed the gym's other patrons-especially those who looked experienced in these matters. A warm up of some sort would be necessary, so I opted for a rowing machine. It looked like the sort of thing good for working the kinks out of my shoulders and upper back: the persistent aches of the office bound worker, whether CEO or cubicle denizen.

It didn't take long for me to become inured to the pervading smells of sweat and steel. I spent ten minutes on the rowing machine, and then visited all the machines that looked appealing and had no queue for their use. Self sculpture it was, so much of exercise, not for health but vanity. Our own bodies the medium. After a year of this, I could paint myself white and stand upon a pedestal.

I spent two hours lifting and breathing and sweating and grunting with the weight machines. My muscles swelled in appreciation, and I strutted back to the locker room feeling very masculine and potent in my freshly pumped up state. I deigned to shower there, since I did not feel inclined to return home yet. I'd come to no conclusions about anything. I wasn't sure I'd even considered anything particularly relevant yet. Not the decision to keep or return Trowa.

I took another cab further downtown and went to my favourite antique book store. There I found a paperback edition of Isaac Asimov's complete robot stories. I bought it. I did not read much science fiction, modern or classic, but I knew of Asimov's association with all things robotic and AI. Perhaps in the pages of his fiction I would find some insight for myself.

I did enjoy Trowa, but Duo was right to challenge my use of him. In any Aristotelian sense, Trowa was not the android for me. At least, I was not deploying him for his intended purpose, but instead using his form for a different function. I might well be better suited to a domestic model-something out of the box, not quite such a refined design.

The idea sat ill with me. I didn't believe I could be forming any sort of sentimental attachment to Trowa. I enjoyed him, but I didn't feel any affection for him or his particular presence. Did I? A domestic model would not ask me questions, would not... What? What else did Trowa do?

He made me feel self-conscious and strange and too aware of sex and how I had so deliberately segregated it from my life. Was the rest worth that?

I went to a movie-a vapid and dull comedy that left no lingering mementos in my mind. Then I treated myself to an early dinner. I did not mind dining alone. Alone was my custom. I was also wealthy enough that eccentricity was expected.

With the onset of dusk, the chill of the darkened streets and glum weight of the nighttime sky, I decided I should return home and see Trowa. Perhaps then I would know what my decision might be.

At home, I found Trowa seated at the dining room table with the sketch pad and pencils.

"Hello," I said, and I let myself observe him as if he were, not an object for advanced masturbatory techniques, but an artwork-as I had imagined him in the museum. Today he wore the black suit with the Nehru collar in which he had been delivered, but with an amber coloured satin shirt beneath it. The shirt was another clothing item I had purchased for him. The splash of vibrant hue brought the illusion of life to his perfect complexion, and its warm tones were echoed in his hair.

"Hello, Quatre," Trowa replied. "Did you enjoy your day out?"

"Yes, thank you," I said, manners on automatic. "Have you drawn anything?"

"No," said the android. "I don't know what to draw." He set one hand upon the open sketchbook as if feeling its texture with the pads of his fingertips.

"Anything you like, Trowa."

The android frowned, even the creases between his eyebrows graceful somehow. "I can't make that determination."

"What inspires you-interests you?"

"Many things interest me, but I don't know which of them inspires me." His hand slid off the paper back onto the surface of the table.

"Okay," I said, and pulled out a chair next to Trowa. I sat down and looked at his pad. It was completely blank, there were not even messy sketch lines or signs of erasure.

"How do you recognise inspiration, Quatre?"

"Well," I started. I looked up at The Death of Socrates. I thought about the artists of the museum, and of my own youthful experiences with music. "It's an urge," I said.

"For what?" Trowa asked.

"An urge for expression, of some idea or thing, or a curiosity to experience the process or the result of the creation."

"I don't understand."

"I don't think what I said would make a lot of sense to you," I admitted. It was an esoteric concept, difficult for even a human to describe.

Trowa did not reply, he returned his attention to his blank sketch paper.

"Look, you don't have to start with inspiration. A lot of art is mechanical training in technique. So, you're a student. Try drawing something basic, like the bowl there, in the center of the table."

Trowa considered the bowl, a large celadon glazed oval. "How do I draw it?"

"Use the pencils."

"No, Quatre. In what style should I draw the bowl? The drawing is a representation. In what manner should I represent it? There are many different ways I have read in your books."

"Oh." I refrained from telling him again, 'whatever you like', for I was uncertain whether Trowa could discern likes and dislikes. Art was too abstract for a simulated mind.

"Would you draw the bowl, Quatre, please?" he asked me.

I shrugged as he slid the pad and box of pencils to me. "I'm not very good at drawing, but I guess I can try."

I unfolded the cardboard end of the box containing the pencils and tipped them, tips first, into my palm. I selected the darker of the two green pencils-my colour options were limited, this being a set of pencils for school children.

Drawing was nothing I had pursued since my childhood, and the obligatory art courses of my secondary education. My rendition of the bowl consisted of wobbly lines, poor perspective, and barely adequate shading.

"You chose an abstract representation," Trowa told me.

"Sure," I said. I hadn't really tried for anything in particular. That was a marked difference already between my human brain and Trowa's.

"May I try now?" Trowa asked.

I nodded and passed him the pad and pencils.

With the same green pencil he duplicated, as exactly as I could determine, my drawing. With a smile he showed it to me. "I have drawn the bowl too."

I don't know why precisely, but it disappointed me, deeply. My expectations were the issue, not Trowa's performance. But I had hoped for something more.

"Is it wrong, Quatre?" Trowa asked, and I realised my disappointment had reached my face.

I smiled. "It's a good first attempt," I told him.

That night I dreamed of Athena. I made love to her on the walls of the museum, where the marble hung. She held me in her stone arms, and spread her stone legs, and took me deep inside her body. I rarely dreamed of sex with a woman, and even after this dream, I did not think I had this time, not exactly. It had been something else, coupling with a goddess, not a woman.

After I had spent myself between her marble thighs, she turned me over, and I was taken in turn. By whom I did not know, but my dream body felt the penetration of a hard, stone phallus, cold and cruel, piercing my body, piercing me deeper and deeper, impossibly so, for I felt it in my gut, then my chest, in my throat, and woke, just the thing would have breached my lips and come out my mouth. There was no pain, only more dream pleasure, but I woke with alarm nonetheless, and I could not return to sleep.


	7. Chapter 6: Midnight Snack

I tossed and turned for an hour before giving up on sleep for the night. Disturbing images from my nightmare lingered behind my closed eyelids and intruded into both thoughts and imaginings, though I tried to divert them. My bedding, dampened with sweat and twisted about my limbs no longer invited rest, and my body echoed with the memory of dreamed (and unsatisfied) arousal. I got up. It took me a few minutes to decide for what purpose I should be getting up. I did not wish to cloister myself in my bedroom, but since Trowa's arrival, I had not ventured from my bedroom during the night. I worried--irrationally, I suppose--that I would interrupt him somehow.

It was my home, I reminded myself, and snagged my dressing gown from its hook on the back of my bedroom door. Muscles in my shoulders spasmed painfully, reminding me of my earlier, too zealous gym outing. I winced, feeling the stiffness of impending aches in my arms, back, and thighs as well; but my fingers found comfort in the familiar dense burgundy velvet and thick silk cording of the garment.

The rest of me felt decidedly unfamiliar as I opened the door and padded down the hall barefoot. I had no idea what to expect.

The light over the sink was on but no others in the immediate living area. It left the living room deep in shadow. My eyes strained to make out a Trowa-like shape, in case he were there. I did not know where he did his daily shut down and maintenance. "Trowa?" I inquired of the darkness. I received no reply.

In the kitchen, I poured myself a glass of chilled water and sipped it while leaning back against the counter. Should I seek out Trowa? Curiosity bade me to, and I did not think I could get back to sleep now anyway. I set my half drunk glass on the counter and made my way to the hall. A soft light glowed beneath the door to the library.

I sidled up to the closed door and held my ear near its surface, seeking acoustic hints of what the android may be doing. I heard nothing, so I opened the door.

Trowa was in the chair by the window, with a large book of Cubist art open in his lap, open to Duchamp's Nude Descending a Staircase. It was a distinctive enough piece, I could recognise it from where I stood. His attention turned from it to me as I paused at the threshold of the room. I took but one silent step into the library; my fingers fastened upon the plush side seams of my robe. I felt like a boy suddenly, unsure of my presence in this room, at this time, in this company. Reflexively I smiled.

"I couldn't sleep," I said, in explanation. I nearly added that it was due to a nightmare, but I did not want to speak of the dream lest words concretize its imagery; I was sure Trowa would ask for details if I mentioned it.

Trowa looked at me for a long moment without speaking. The book he shut with a thudded slap and set aside. He stood, rising in an inhumanly fluid movement. "What do you desire of me, Quatre?" he asked, his voice low and soft and full of the nighttime.

Maybe it was my imagination, but as he moved toward me, I thought I perceived a seductive twist in his torso, a inviting tilt of his head, a too-slow blink. My breath tangled with my heartbeat on it's way into my lungs. I took another deeper, smoother breath before trying to speak. His uncanny green eyes fixed their gaze on my face. Inquisitive.

"I..." I took a half step to the side and back, and Trowa halted a pace from me. "I didn't have anything in mind. I just, thought I'd see you, what you were doing."

The android frowned, a fleeting expression of confusion, and then smiled as if the frown had never marred his features. "I'm here," he said.

I laughed a little, mostly at myself for being so unsettled without real cause. But I still did not know what to say.

Trowa kept looking at me--studying me almost--with his little smile on his face. It almost looked like affection.

Conversation was not Trowa's primary purpose, but I wished he would say something more, something I could work with. My brain was bleary from both sleep and my abrupt awakening. A headache lurked behind my eyelids. I rubbed my temples and felt my neck muscles twinge as I rolled my head.

"Are you in discomfort?" Trowa asked.

"Just a little headache," I said, "And I might've overdone it at the gym today."

"May I?" Trowa asked, reaching for my shoulder with a hand.

I did not protest or pull away this time, and so I let him touch me, as Duo had exhorted.

Slowly and carefully, as if I might bolt away like a timid animal, Trowa's hand folded over my shoulder, and he gently prompted me to turn. I held my breath, trusting him through my anxiety, until both of his hands touched me, resting upon my shoulders for moment before moving to my head. His fingertips eased into my hair and pressed against my scalp, into the tension of my nascent headache. I bit my lip to prevent an exhalation of pleasure.

Oh, it had been a long time since anyone had done this for me. And this! It was the best scalp massage in existence; I was convinced. "Where'd you learn to--?" I began, before I realised it was a wholly moronic question. Bliss blurred my words.

"Pardon me, Quatre?"

"Nothing, never mind," I said. Rising into the sinking bliss of the was the flicker of physical arousal; I tried to ignore it. "That feels nice, Trowa."

His thumbs slid down my neck, worked into the ache there, and I let out a little sigh. Too good. Trowa's hands were too good. The induced relaxation weakened my knees, and I feared I might slump back against Trowa. "Thank you," I said, and made myself firm my stance. I pulled away, slowly, and turned to face the android.

"Do you feel better?"

I nodded. "Yes, thanks, Trowa."

"Do you think you can sleep now?" the android asked.

Remembering my tangled and sweaty bedding, I grimaced. "Doubtful. I need to change my sheets."

"May I assist you?"

Trowa's seeming eagerness made me smile. "Please," I said, but my smile faded as I wondered what part of my psychology had made him eager for subservience. Or maybe all PA's were like this, I reassured myself.

The wisdom of inviting Trowa into my bedroom at three in the morning did not register long in my mind. I was awake, yes, but it was the hollow-brained sort of awake one only experiences in those small hours when your circadian rhythms are insisting that your proper mental state is unconsciousness, and yet, here you are--foolish creature--being awake. The ache to return to sleep was a tangible void behind my breastbone; a tangible vacuum behind my eyes. Fresh sheets--or rather the promise of them--had me beckon Trowa within my sanctuary, and direct him to the opposite side of my bed to assist me in stripping off the soiled sheets.

Once the dirty sheets were in a wad by the door, I retrieved a clean set from the linen cupboard in my en suite. They were, in contrast to the plain ivory we had stripped from the bed, cinnamon brown shadow striped cotton.  
I shook out the bottom sheet and passed a corner to Trowa; he examined the fabric, running his fingertips over the texture of the finely woven stripes. I did not rush him.

He rubbed the fabric between his fingertips curiously.

"Do you like the way that feels?" I asked, curious myself. I remained uncertain to what extent Trowa could experience things such as likes and dislikes, without them having been preprogrammed directives.

"It's very soft fabric," Trowa said.

"It's comfortable for sleeping," I said and pulled the top of the sheet up to the head of the bed. Trowa watched me lift the mattress and tuck the pocket of the sheet about the corner. He did the same on his side of the bed.

"What is sleep like, Quatre?"

I smoothed the bottom of the sheet into place, and grabbed the top sheet, handing one edge to Trowa as I considered his question. "Sleep is usually, for me, like oblivion. I don't remember my dreams often."

"Then is it like being dead?"

"I really couldn't tell you, Trowa, having never been dead," I chuckled.

Trowa grinned. "Of course."

"Some people believe in an afterlife of some sort, so maybe it's not oblivion."

"Heaven and Hell, for much of Western religion, correct?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Perhaps, if death is like sleep, then the afterlife is like a dream." Trowa said.

I smiled and nodded my head. An original thought; an analogy solved. "That's a very interesting idea, Trowa."

"I don't have dreams when I am shut down," he said, as if confiding a secret to me.

"No, I wouldn't expect you did," I said.

The android appeared disgruntled by this fact, but it required consciousness for dreams. And many would hold, a subconscious as well. I tossed a pillow and pillowcase to Trowa; he caught them easily, and we finished making the bed.

After pulling the comforter up, Trowa stood regarding me expectantly.

"Thank you, Trowa."

"Do you feel you can return to sleep now?"

"I don't know."

"If you do not believe you can, may I ask something of you, Quatre, please?"

Nothing in Trowa's expression or carriage hinted at what it might he wanted to ask me. But given the context: night time, my bedroom, my bed between us... "You may ask," I said to him. I sounded like I did at work sometimes. Or like my father had: chilly.

"Duo said you had art in your closet. You said you would show it to me. Could you please show me now?"

Ah, _that_. I was relieved. "We may as well look at them now," I said, and smiled at Trowa, to let him know I wasn't upset by his question. "I'm glad you reminded me."

I moved to the double doors of my closet--in truth it was more of a room, larger even than my en suite bathroom and toilet, but smaller than my bedroom proper. Opening one of the doors I gestured for Trowa to join me. "Come in, Trowa. It's easier than bringing them out."

He joined me in my closet. The lights came up, triggered by our entrance. While Trowa looked about the room, especially at the three way mirror (or his reflection in it), I went to where the framed art was, stacked together against the wall, behind my old suits, covered in blankets.

An accent chair sat near the mirror, so I shifted the first piece to lean against it. This one was a replica of Emile Levy's The Death of Orpheus. "The death of another Greek dude," I said to Trowa as I pulled the blanket off.

"Orpheus," said Trowa, immediately rapt. He knelt before the painting.

"Do you know the story?"

"He is about to be torn apart by the Maenads, for loving 'tender boys' rather than them."

"That's one version," I said.

"It's a brutal scene."

"Yes," I said, and knelt next to Trowa. I watched him as he examined the painting. It was rich with detail. Brutal and yet sensuous with an eroticism of death: the passion of the Maenads and the surrender of Orpheus.

"May I touch it?"

"Yes," I said and turned my attention to his hand, his fingertips lightly skating over the surface of the oil paint, feeling the texture of the work of the artist who made this copy.

"It is beautiful," Trowa said.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes." The android nodded. "Death is mysterious, and enigma is beautiful."

"Some say he was killed shortly after exiting Hades, after falling into despair for failing to save Euridice."

"Can I die?" Trowa asked.

Trowa was looking at me now, serious and earnest in his question. Innocent also.

"I don't know," I told him, for I didn't. "To die implies having lived. I don't think--I don't know if you are alive."

Trowa's gaze returned to Orpheus, lying despondent under the Maenads poised to butcher him. His lyre lay nearby, broken. Looking too long at him left me raw and melancholy--part of the reason this painting remained in here, hidden.

"Am I alive?" Trowa asked. I sensed it was a question directed at himself (peculiar), but then he asked me, "You are alive, Quatre. How do you know you are?"

Being alive was not that same question as being conscious, for a mushroom is alive, but does not--to the best of modern scientific knowledge--possess consciousness in any form. Nor was being alive equivalent with existing, for many things not alive exist: mountains, oceans, umbrellas. Maybe Trowa too.

Being alive had something to do with biology; that was intuitive, but not relevant to Trowa's query, for he was not biological, and my being biological likely had little to do with my own personal sense of being alive. Life did imply change and growth though. Perhaps that was it. Over time, alive things changed. "I think it has something to do with change over time, growth of some sort--psychological, physical. The capacity for and experience of that growth, I think, is what lets me know I am alive."

"I change over time, I learn," said Trowa. "So I am alive, and I can therefore die."

"I don't know," I said, doubtful. It couldn't be that easy. Maybe there was nothing to let me know that I was alive. I just took it as axiomatic. "I'm not a scientist."

"May I see another painting now, please?"

"Okay," I said, and stood. Trowa helped me put The Death of Orpheus back against the wall, and he helped me pull out the next piece. For a moment I considered: if I could not determine whether I was alive, then I had no way of knowing that I was not a simulation. Except I was conscious, something subjective enough that even its illusion required its existence. Odd.

"This one," I said to Trowa as we propped the framed print against the chair, "is a Sixteenth Century depiction of Hell." I pulled the blanket off.

Silence followed my words; Trowa looked at the painting. He remained standing this time.

"What do you think?"

The android frowned, as if in concentration. "This painting is very different from your other ones. Though the death motif is present, here is it more grotesque. Is that the right word for it, Quatre? Grotesque?"

"Yes, that's right."

"There are many distorted and inhuman figures."

"The souls of the damned and demons," I told him. "And the central figure is called Meg, a symbol of Madness, perhaps."

"Why do you have this?"

I shrugged. "After my father died," I started. "It's difficult to explain. I had been feeling very morbid, and somehow very comforted by indulging my own misery. When I saw this, it suited my mood, my own particular madness then."

"Is that why you have so many paintings depicting death?"

"The others I got later," I said. "To remind me I'll die someday too."

"Why would you wish to remind yourself of your own ending?" Trowa's puzzlement appeared genuine.

I sank to the floor and sat cross-legged. One of my favourite figures in the painting was the fish looking demon eating a man. Only the man's leg remained outside the fish-demon's mouth. I smiled at it. Dark yes, but whimsical. "Death isn't really about endings so much as it's about change," I said.

"But it is an end?" Trowa sat on the floor next to me.

"For the person who dies, I suppose it is. For the people around him, though, it's change, and change that profound is hard to accept. Changes like death, we're rarely ready for. I want to be ready for it, for my own and for those of others."

"You were not ready for your father's death, then?"

"No." I reached and tugged the blanket down over Bruegel's vision of Hell, but I did not stand.

Softly the android asked, "Could you tell me about it, Quatre, please? I want to understand you."

"Understand me?" I said, but kept my laugh caged in my throat. "Good luck. I don't understand myself."

"I don't understand that," Trowa said; his rueful smile echoed mine.

"My father," I began, inhaled and exhaled deeply. The knot was still there in my chest. "Where do I start?"

"Anywhere you like," Trowa said.

I nodded. "I guess I should tell you how he really wanted me to do this, what I'm doing now, with the business. My great-great-great grandfather founded the company, early twentieth century. We're a private company, and've been in the family the whole time, so it was important to my father that I take up the mantle after him. That sort of thing--legacy--is important to a lot of people.

"But, " I sighed. "I didn't want to. I hated studying business and economics and accountancy and management. They're the most boring things humans have invented."

Trowa smiled, and I returned it. He was apprehending my humour well now--reasonably consistently too.

"So," I continued. "After my second year at university, I decided I needed a change. I couldn't do what he wanted me to do. It was suffocating me." I leaned back on straight arms, and Trowa half turned to maintain his facing of me. "I didn't know what else I wanted to do, I just knew I wanted something different. I had some other interests--like Music and Art and Classics--that I thought I could pursue. For the following year, I thought maybe I should enroll in a variety of classes, see what might appeal. I chose some science, some art. Other things too.

"When my father found out, he was furious. We had a big fight. The details aren't that important, but I told him how he'd never understood me, how he didn't really care about me--who I truly was. All he cared about was what he thought he saw of himself in me, and that it was all an illusion. Wishful thinking. I wasn't anything like him. In fact, I told him I hated him.

"Then I left. I got a hotel room, and sulked and felt sorry for myself.

"I didn't speak to my father again. I dipped into my savings to rent my own place. I didn't even go home to get my things, not that first week." I sighed again. The memory weighed heavily within me. My spoiled self-indulgence, my ingratitude and cruelty to my father.

"I left home on the Saturday night we fought. The following Thursday, my sister tracked me down to tell me father had died. An aortic tear. It was completely unexpected. Just one of those things that happens, I guess.

"That's what happened," I said. "That's how he died."

Trowa slowly inclined his head in acknowledgement of my monologue. It was the most I think I'd told him about myself. I'd never told this story to anyone else. No one else knew. No one. My father and I were the only ones who had witnessed that ugliest fight. We were the only ones who knew the last thing I'd said to him was that I hated him.

I expected to be crying, but my eyes were dry. The lump in my chest was still there, but I felt disconnected from it, like it belonged to someone else: the grief, the regret, the shame. It was there, but it was distant.

"Thank you for telling me," Trowa said.

I smiled. Sorrow and an unexpected peace mingled within me. We put Mad Meg away.

Three more blanket shrouded pieces remained, smaller than the other two. "The others aren't paintings," I said. "They're photographs. Do you still want to see them?" I asked hoping Trowa would decline. Thoughts of death and of my father should not be the thing to precede the pornography.

"Yes, please," Trowa said. "Unless you are sleepy."

"Well," I said (sleepiness was returning) and withheld the sigh that asked for release. "We can look at one more tonight."

"All right," Trowa agreed.

My hands were a little unsteady as I pulled the first photograph out from under its blanket. I had no way to know which of the pieces I was retrieving. I hoped it wasn't one which would be difficult to explain to Trowa. Or perhaps, being pornography, he would not need any help from me in interpreting the image.

It was the one of the naked man in the domino mask surrounded by his (all male) troupe of admirers, each identically clad in a tuxedo and top hat. With their white gloved hands they touched him as if he were the centerpiece of the room. It was worshipful. And he held his arms overhead, permitting their covetous touches. The masked man's skin was hairless and smooth, like Trowa's. Under glass, his musculature glowed in the sepia tones of the photograph, stark contrast to the black and white formality of the others' clothes.

"No death here," I said to Trowa. I moved to stand behind him as he studied the photograph. Now that a different--but just as primitive--part of my psyche was on display, new apprehension flitted in my belly. My psychology might have been the primary variable input into the design and manufacturing of Trowa's brain, but I still experienced vulnerability. I did not think he would judge me for having such photographs in my collection; I did not know how he would react to it.

"Do you find this piece erotic as well as beautiful?" Trowa asked.

"Yes," I said, for I did. The nervous flutter of my blood sank lower as I gazed upon the photo. Something about it entranced me. mind and body. The anonymity of the nude man, with his mask, inviting touch, displaying himself with his air of self-conscious prurience, and yet something about him remained almost chaste and untouchable. The tuxedoed men could look and touch with their gloved hands, but--maybe--that is all they were allowed.

And they, the admirers, also somehow anonymous. No, not quite anonymous, but lacking in individuality due to their cloned wardrobes and demeanors. Who were they, the party-goers?

Trowa was silent for a while. Then he asked me another question, a stranger one:

"With whom do you identify most in this photograph? The man being touched, or one of the men touching?" The android turned and looked into my face, his query bright in his eyes.

This time, I had no ready answer for Trowa.


	8. Chapter 7: Decision

I stared at the photograph. I imagined myself the centre of that attention-the admiring hands and the accompanying soft, flattering murmurs. I imagined myself detached from it-the flattery-and yet pleased by it. Satisfied maybe, my vanity indulged by this wanton exhibition.

It was a nice fantasy, but, no, I was probably one of the tuxedos. One of the admirers, stifled by formality, wanting what was just out of his grasp, just beneath the barrier of his gloves: perfection.

"I don't know," I said to Trowa; I glanced from his face back to the painting. Maintaining eye contact with Trowa unnerved me still. "Neither, maybe. Or both."

"Would you enjoy me like this?" asked Trowa. He turned back to the painting, bent, and placed a finger upon the glass, over the nude man in the domino mask.

Heat washed my brain. I felt it, the pressure of it, under my skull. It made me dizzy.

"I don't know," I said, but I wondered if I did know, somewhere I did not want to acknowledge. The flutter of my blood, descending deep in my belly, told me I knew something.

"Quatre," Trowa said and turned once more to face me. His expression was both serious and entreating. "You've had me for a week."

"Yes," I acknowledged with a nod. My voice barely rose above a whisper. My heart skipped its next beat, or so I imagined.

The android glanced down, an illusion of demureness. Then he tilted his head and peered at me from behind his hair. "My capacity to learn is optimal now. I want to learn more about you."

"You are learning about me," I said. To my own ears I sounded defensive.

"More than this," Trowa said. The androids pupils appeared dilated now, as if his desire were real. As if he could actually be attracted to me.

As if he even had a choice in the matter, I thought bitterly. "This can be enough for now," I said. I hoped it could be. Was the android meant to pressure me?

"Perhaps you misunderstand me," Trowa said, "It's important for me, for my purpose. If I'm to become an ideal lover for you, then I need to learn about your body as well as your mind." He tilted his head and smiled at me again, a different, darker smile. "I want to learn how to pleasure you, Quatre."

I could not reply, not to such a direct declaration. I turned away from Trowa and looked at the open closet door, wishing I were on the other side. It was too close here in the closet. Too hot and stifling. Trowa said he wanted. How could Trowa want anything. It was an absurd declaration. I closed my eyes and reminded myself he was an illusion. No matter how clever he seemed, he was silicon and electrons. There was no awareness, no desire there, only a very sophisticated simulation.

The rustle of cloth came behind me: Trowa putting the photograph back with the others, I surmised. This would be over soon. I took the few steps to the open closet door.

"Quatre?" Trowa's voice halted me. I put my hand on the doorjamb and pressed my forehead to the back of my hand. What now?

"Yes, Trowa?"

"Please turn around and look at me."

I inhaled and exhaled. The lateness of the hour yawed within my mind, and I was grateful for the doorjamb, helping me to stay upright. I inhaled more deeply, held the breath, and then turned with an equally deep sighing exhalation.

Trowa had removed his clothes. All of them.

He stood posed like the man in the photograph, arms overhead. He was even more perfect. All of him, perfect, right down to... my gaze fell between his legs... to his perfect, intact (and thankfully flaccid) artificial penis.  
"Do you find me beautiful?"

"Yes," I said, barely audible. I could not lie.

He twisted his waist a little, stretched a little. A tiny smile tugged the edge of his mouth. "Do you find me erotic as well?"

This time I could only nod.

"Do you wish to touch me?"

My first thought in response to that was that I could not touch him, for I was not wearing gloves.

I was too tired for this. Too oversaturated mentally, emotionally, and now physically. The burn from my head had infected my whole body, burrowed under my skin. I moved back toward Trowa and bent to pick up his shirt from the floor.

"Yes," I said. "I want to touch you." I handed him the satin shirt. He held it without making any move to put it back on. "But I don't want to."

"I don't understand. You contradicted yourself."

"It's called ambivalence, Trowa. It's wanting two polar things at the same time."

"Why don't you want to touch me?"

"You're not," I sighed, and scrubbed both hands through my hair. I was indeed too tired to speak carefully, so I ended up with candid instead of careful. "Trowa, you're not real."

"I am not unreal." Trowa frowned in a display of mild confusion.

"I mean, you're not a person. You're not human. You don't have feelings and thoughts. Not real ones. You're a machine, Trowa. A self-propelled, artificially intelligent dildo."

No offense registered in Trowa's fine features; he quickly returned to his customary placid and slightly smiling mien. He replied simply, "You knew what I was when you got me." His lack of perturbation reinforced to me that he was not human; a sapient and feeling being would have been hurt. Trowa was unfazed by my words.

"You were a gift. Duo gave you to me," I said.

"I didn't know that," Trowa said softly.

"Please, put your clothes back on. I'm tired, and I want to go to sleep now."

"I apologise, Quatre. I did not mean to upset you."

"I'm fine. It's fine. I'm just tired."

"Yes, Quatre."

Trowa picked up his clothes and left my closet, and then he left my room, shutting the door softly behind him.

I returned to bed, but I did not sleep again soon. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Trowa, standing there nude, asking me if I wanted to touch him. My mind's eye showed me myself touching him: wondering, marveling touches of his perfect skin and his perfect body. Without gloves, without physical barriers of any kind. I was naked too, both of us, and he touched me. He rubbed my neck and my scalp.

At some point the fantasy dissolved into sleep. I woke at my usual time with my brain fuzzy and fatigued.

Breakfast awaited me; Trowa knew my routines well. He had baked the croissants I had left out to thaw overnight. The local French bakery sold me the dough before its second rising. Trowa had also brewed coffee. I sat at the bar, and he passed me an oversized latte-my preference on an empty stomach-a plate with the croissants, butter, and raspberry jam. The newspaper he downloaded from the terminal in the kitchen and passed to me the cell-sheet.

I scanned the headlines and waited for the coffee to cool.

"How do you feel this morning?"

"Fine," I said, wincing as I straightened my back. The gym was definitely with me today.

"You look tired."

"I didn't sleep well."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

I had my breakfast and my coffee, and wondered what it was I usually did on Sundays. Usually I prepared for Monday, but today I felt lazy and sore and selfish. Instead of my usual shower, I drew a bath and poured rose and sandalwood scented oil into the water stream. While the bath filled, I sought out the book I had bought yesterday, the Asimov robot stories.

Spending my Sunday morning reading in the bath was such an indulgence. I couldn't recall when I'd last done such a thing. It was, I decided, a far better use of my Sunday morning than holing up in the study at my desk for the day.

The hot water immersion eased the aches of my muscles. I worried the steam would damage my book, but I was very careful to keep my hands dry and the book out of the water.

The first story I read was about a boy and his robotic dog. The boy loved his robot dog, and it seemed to the boy that the robotic dog loved him. When his parents replaced the robot dog with a real dog, the boy was heartbroken. He couldn't understand why the 'real' dog was meant to be better than his robot dog. He only wanted the dog he had loved, and who had loved him in return.

'Who' had loved him, not 'that' had loved him it seemed to me. The robot dog was a real entity to the boy.

I set the book aside. It was only a story, and the protagonist was a child. It was easy for children to pretend and play make believe, to experience fantasy as reality, to see life and mind in things where there was none. Personification children did easily and throughout human history. Little girls with their dolls were no different from Asimov's boy and his dog.

But there was another theme at play: when you could not discern a different between a simulation and the real thing, was there truly a difference any longer? There was always that chance that what we experienced as reality was only itself a clever simulation. I could be a brain in jar dreaming an especially vivid dream.

Trowa could be real enough.

Real enough for what? For me? Could I let myself be like a child and pretend with Trowa?

I grimaced at the embarrassment that followed my imagining such a thing. It would be a deliberate deception of my self to allow myself to pretend. I'd never been good at that kind of conscious deception, no matter how self-serving it was. Sex with a machine was crass and bizarre. My temptation was personal weakness only. Trowa reminded me that I was alone. He exploited an insecurity I believed I had eradicated.

I frowned. That had been Duo's intention: to remind me I was alone. I had been content being alone, and I would be again.

When I got out of the bath, I dressed and went to my study. On my terminal I called up the ARI catalogue and paged to their Domestic Series of androids. My interest was tepid. These models were very obviously machines, both in their visual design and their functioning. Did I really need a robot to make my bed, do my laundry, answer my door, cook my dinner? I would still prefer to hire a human, someone who would go home after cleaning my bathroom or making my dinner.

If I returned Trowa, Duo could get a refund. This was well within the first ninety days of purchase. Yes. I would call ARI tomorrow and arrange for Trowa to be returned and for Duo to be reimbursed. It had been a bad idea from the start. I should not have even taken the gift this far, shouldn't have taken the invitation Duo gave me, shouldn't have gone to ARI; I should have declined the gift. Trowa should never even have been built.

I spent the remainder of my Sunday in my study, working.


	9. Chapter 8: Standby

I went to work Monday fully intending to call ARI during the workday to arrange for Trowa's return. Each time I thought to ring their customer service line, however, something would come up to take precedence. Distractions were plentiful when I was avoiding something unpleasant. Strange that my decision to return Trowa had not yet brought me the peace I expected.

By the time I went home that evening, it was after ten o'clock, and I had not made the call. I reminded myself of my decision as I exited the elevator and approached my front door, on the other side of which I knew Trowa would greet me. My resolve must remain firm, no matter how solicitous or charming the android might be. I did not need him in my life. I did not want the upset and the confusion he brought.

But when I came in, Trowa was not there to greet me. The lights were dimmed, and I saw no sign of the android. I left my shoes in the foyer and proceeded in stocking feet. On the bar sat an empty snifter and a bottle of cognac--waiting for me. I set my briefcase on the floor and shrugged off both my overcoat and my suit jacket. I lay them over the back of the sofa and poured myself a couple fingers of cognac. My salad I put in the fridge; the bottle of cognac I returned to the drinks cabinet.

Gently, I swirled the amber liquid in its glass and made my way to the library. The door was open, so I walked in. "Hi," I said to Trowa. He sat in his usual spot by the window.

I sipped the cognac, let its warm raisin and oak flavours spread over my tongue. Just the feel of the alcohol in my mouth was enough to melt away some of the day's tension.

"Good evening, Quatre," said Trowa.

I leaned against the doorjamb. Usually--for the past week anyway--I would ask Trowa what he had done that done. What he had explored or learned. Today I didn't care so much. I took a longer swallow of my drink, swallowed it full to feel the alcohol burn down my throat.

"Would you like for me to make dinner for you?" Trowa asked.

I shook my head. "I picked something up for myself," I replied. I wondered if he would tell me why he hadn't met me by the door. Could the android be passive aggressive? I doubted it.  
"Would like for me to use a different room?"

"No, you're fine here," I said. I watched Trowa over the rim of my glass as I sipped again.

The android watched me watch him.

"Is there something you require of me, Quatre?" he asked as he stood.

"No."

"Something you... desire, then?" He cocked his head in mock inquisitiveness.

"No, thank you, Trowa." I smiled at him; the expression did look fetching after all.

"Do you remain upset with me?"

"I'm not upset with you." This I said more softly.

Trowa laced his fingers together in front of himself; it made him look self-conscious. "Then what do you want, Quatre?"

"What do you want?" I countered, contrary, yes, but also I was genuinely curious.

"To please you."

I shook my head. "Not that."

"It is my purpose," he said.

"There's nothing else you want, nothing at all for yourself?"

"No," said the android. "I am made for you."

Not passive aggressive, but completely co-dependent. I hoped this was not a function of me in the android. It was unattractive enough. "I don't want you to be like that," I said.

"I can be no other way. I am for you."

"I know," I said. A strange sadness nestled in my chest, and I sighed. "I'm going to return you, Trowa."

I thought saying this would affect the android in some more profound manner, that perhaps telling Trowa this would prompt something within him, something more real than his subservience to me. But nothing changed in Trowa's expression. He asked, "Will returning me make you happy?"

I laughed, humourlessly. "Not happy," I said. "But it will help me get back to myself and my life."

"I have been a disruption?"

"You could say that."

"An unpleasant one? I have displeased you?"

I shrugged. It wasn't true to say he had displeased me, but then, what other word was there for it? If it were not an unpleasant disruption, then I would not be wanting to return the android. That seemed sensible. But I had not wholly convinced myself. Part of the trouble wasn't the ways in which Trowa had disappointed me; I knew that was due to my own expectations being too high for an artificial intelligence. It was the ways in which he had tempted me that sat ill in my conscience. It wasn't that I was particularly moral about sex, but the idea of having sexual feelings for someone--something--which could never really return those feelings. And I did not enjoy casual sex. Perhaps it made me old fashioned, but I liked for my sexual relationships to be for something more than scratching an itch.

"I am defective then. You are right to return me."

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

"Why should I wish for you to feel guilt, Quatre? I wish only to please you." The android pressed his lips together, and then continued. "But perhaps that's what is wrong with me. Despite my intentions I do things that make you feel badly--guilty or upset."

"It's all right," I said, oddly wanting to reassure Trowa. I supposed it didn't matter to him, but I felt better. "I'm probably not the sort of person who should have a PA."

Trowa said nothing to that, but he did appear pensive. If only I could believe it were more than appearance. I did feel guilty, but not because of Trowa. If only I could pretend.

"I'm going to bed soon, so good night," I said, ending the exchange.

"Good night, Quatre."

I ate my salad, and then went to bed. I did not remember any of my dreams that night.

The next day, I made myself ring ARI first thing when I got to my office. I still felt guilty, but I was used to guilt, and so I set it aside and agreed to have the ARI techs come to my home on Saturday to collect Trowa.

However, I made the mistake of asking what would become of the android upon his return. They told me he would be dismantled. Some components would be reused in new androids, others--including what passed for his unique 'brain', the part that had been hard-coded for me, would be destroyed. Its silicon melted down into slag.

I made myself smile and say "all right" and "thank you," to the customer service rep on the other end of the phone. She had delivered the information to me dispassionately. For them it was merely disposing of an unwanted product. She also told me someone would contact me to ask if I would permit to be interviewed about my reasons for returning the android. It was my decision, of course, whether or not to do the interview, but ARI encouraged such customer feedback, so they could make improvements to future models, avoid a repeat of whatever my issue had been with the android.

I supposed it was reassuring in a way that the ARI people indulged no sentimentality about their product. They did not consider an android of their manufacture to be alive, and they would know better than anyone the potentials and the limitations of their androids. Even the personal androids, with their greater sophistication, were nothing special.

So. Saturday, Trowa would leave me. I would have my life back as it had been, as I had liked it.

The rest of the week I worked long hours and brought my dinner home with me. I did not spend much time with Trowa, and he seemed content to simply sit in the library and wait for Saturday.

Duo called me on Thursday, but I did not answer nor did I return his call. He'd likely heard from ARI regarding my return of the android. I did not want for him to try to change my mind. This was my decision.

He called again Saturday morning. I turned off my phone. I still did not want to talk to Duo.

On that same Saturday morning, Trowa dressed in clothes I had given him. Olive green trousers and the amber silk shirt. I told him he looked nice. He smiled and thanked me, and I felt sad and guilty again.

"I've enjoyed having you around, Trowa," I said. "Even though it hasn't worked out."

"I have liked being here with you, Quatre. I have learned many things."

I smiled. "Yes, you really have."

"Now I will learn about death," he said.

A lump formed in my throat. "I guess, maybe you will."

"Do you believe in the existence of a soul?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. "It's too fanciful a notion for me."

"Then you are not a person who believes in an afterlife?"

"No, Trowa. I don't."

"If you did believe in the existence of a soul, do you think, Quatre? Do you think that I would have one?"

I think my heart broke a little bit then. I hadn't expected this line of questioning from Trowa.

"Many people who believe in souls, believe that only humans possess them. Others believe only animals may have them. Most agree a machine, a computer or an artificial intelligence, cannot have a soul, and that's why they cannot ever be alive or like a human being."

"What do you believe?"

"I don't believe in souls," I reiterated.

"Assume that you do."

"I, um, I haven't really thought about such things. It's hard for me to know. If I have a soul, something that lives on after I die, it would be part of my consciousness. So I think to have a soul, one must possess consciousness, and I don't know if you do possess consciousness. I have no way to know."

"But you doubt that I do."

"Yes, I doubt you're conscious."

"I believe I am."

"You're probably just programmed to say that. I doubt you can believe either, not in the sense that I believe something. Belief for you is merely a programmed directive to accept something as true or not. It has nothing to do with reality."

"If I am conscious, do I have a soul?"

"I don't know."

"Will I cease to be when I am shut down and dismantled, or will I continue to be aware of something. Will I continue to learn?"

I shook me head. "They will...Trowa. Your brain will be incinerated and melted down."

"I know," Trowa said.

I had to look away from him. His acceptance of his fate began to seem to me like helpless resignation. He had no power over his fate. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly time.

"I should probably shut you down now," I said.

"All right, Quatre." He arranged himself neatly, sitting straight on the sofa as he had in his packing crate when I received him. It had been two weeks. Tears stung my eyes, but I did not permit them to fall, not did I let myself consider how much I would actually miss Trowa and his childlike metaphysics.

"Quatre," Trowa said.

"Yes?"

"I wish I were not leaving you."

I blinked, and I smiled. "Stand-by, Trowa."

He closed his eyes, his illusory breathing ceased, and he stilled into the stillness of a statue.


	10. Chapter 9: Regrets & Rebirth

The ARI men arrived, and packed up Trowa.

Then Trowa was gone, and I was alone again. I wandered through my apartment, room to room, with my coffee in hand, enjoying the solitude. It wasn't like Trowa had been noisy or intrusive, but just that sense of having someone around. It had been like having a guest in some ways. I'd never felt completely relaxed or free of self-consciousness while Trowa had been here.

In the guestroom wardrobe hung Trowa's clothes. I removed them and lay them on the bed. I'd have them donated to charity tomorrow. Best not to let reminders linger in the apartment, for the entire situation had been unfortunate enough.

I sighed deeply and continued my wander. I closed the door on my study. I did not want to work today. And with the door open, the room emitted a peculiarly work related atmosphere, of dense concentration and backaches.

I went into my bedroom to exchange my shoes for slippers. I looked at Apollo and Hyacinth upon my wall. Melancholy regret sank in my heart.

Slipper-clad, I went to the kitchen to refill my coffee. I downloaded the day's news and took both my coffee and my cell sheet to the library. Trowa had somewhat made claim to the room, and it had been a while since I had sat in here to read. In the chair which Trowa had favoured I sat. His sketchbook and pencils sat on the side table. I pushed the pencils aside and set my mug upon the sketchbook, an impromptu coaster.

I scanned the headlines, finding little of specific interest to me in the weekend news. You'd think the world stopped judging by the lack of real news in the weekend papers. It was dominated by sports, celebrity gossip, and maudlin human interest stories. I set the cell sheet aside.

Closing my eyes and tilting my head back against the padded chair back, I sat quietly for a time. I thought about turning the telephone back on, but then I might feel obliged to take Duo's call. It was not unlikely he'd turn up on my doorstep today anyhow. He was a difficult person to avoid. We'd not had our usual brunch or lunch for the two weeks since Trowa either. I really should make more of an effort to maintain my friendships. It was just as well he was a persistent friend and not liable to slip away while I was having one of my bouts of social avoidance and introversion.

On a whim, I picked up Trowa's sketchbook with my coffee cup and set it in my lap, open to the first page where I had drawn the bowl on the dining room table. I sipped my coffee and turned the page to his copy of my drawing. Curious, I turned the next page. I did not know if Trowa had drawn anything else, or tried to.

Here was another drawing of the bowl. At a glance, tt looked identical to the other two drawings, but when I looked more carefully, I could see a marked difference. Trowa had used the light blue and light green pencils as well to better render the shading and the colour of the celadon in the drawing.

"Not bad," I said and turned another page to another version of the bowl. In this one the lighting was different.

Yet another drawing of the bowl, this one abstract, Cubist almost, depicting all three dimensions of the bowl in two dimensions. "Wow," I said under my breath. It was a sudden leap from the previous drawings to this one. The colours were bolder, the lines certain and--most impressively--unique. Several more abstract versions of the bowl followed, with slightly differing uses of colour and shade and shape. I began to wonder if Trowa had filled up his sketchbook.

The next picture showed a change of subject: the piano in this room, as seen from this chair. Trowa must have sat here and drawn the piano. It started at strongly defined edges, almost like the art one finds in a Sunday comic, but evolved into a more dramatic realism. Then several versions in monochrome of different colours. I liked them very much. I thought about maybe having them framed in a set. A memento of Trowa.

Then came some even more striking drawings. Trowa's renditions of parts of the art pieces I had shown him: The Mystic Eye sculpture with it's eye aspect accentuated; a closer look at Socrates face, Orpheus' face. Hyacinth.

And then Trowa's face. he must have stood in the bathroom and used his reflection. It was remarkable. A self portrait. My android had drawn himself. Perhaps I had underestimated his self-awareness.

A pang of anxiety came. resolutely I turned more pages, saw more drawings, each progressing in complexity and creativity and, even, almost vision. Even the things copied began to take on new aspects. Socrates became a strange portrait of myself, Apollo and Hyacinth were drawn in a spare Japanese style.

And Orpheus... I froze.

Orpheus became Trowa. For several drawings, Trowa had drawn himself into the Orpheus painting. In the last one, the Maenads wore lab coats and wielded screwdrivers.

"Oh," I said, "Trowa."

I stood, sketchpad in hand, open to that last vivid image. I paced, saying again to myself the android's name.

"What have I done?" I asked myself. I cursed myself for my neglect of Trowa this past week. This was not the creation of a soulless machine. Whatever the soul represents--even if I did not believe it to be a real thing--whatever element of humanity it is meant to signify, Trowa had just displayed to me in this drawing. This was art of a mortal being. A mortal being who despite his overt acceptance of his doom, showed fear in the face of it.

For this was fear depicted here, wasn't it?

Whatever else Trowa might be or not be, I knew I now believed him to be alive. Perhaps it was exactly this, a fear of our own ending that makes us alive. And the fiction of the soul as well, as comfort to the dying man, shows the presence of life.

I turned my phone back on, ignored the bleep and the flashing light alerting me to new messages, and called the ARI number. I had to stop them before it was too late.

"Hello, this is Quatre Winner calling. I have an urgent problem."

The Customer Service girl forwarded my call to the lab. Trowa had just been unloaded. I sank into my chair in relief. "Please, bring him back," I said. "I'm sorry for causing trouble, but I have changed my mind."

They said they would bring him back to me as soon as possible and that, no, sir, of course it was no trouble for them.

This time, when the delivery men arrived, I asked them to take Trowa to the guestroom which would now become his room. I hung his clothes back in the wardrobe and set his sketch pad and pencils on the night table.

"On the bed," I directed the men. "On top of the covers is fine."

They laid him down, his lifeless seeming form. And then they left me alone with him. I sat on the edge of the bed with one hand resting on his leg, as if he were a sick friend I had come to comfort. I had saved him from myself, but what was I to do with him now?

His name rested in my mouth, heavy on my tongue, pressing against the back of my lips. But I was afraid to say it, lest he wake. I did not want to wake him yet. My decision had been so fast; I hadn't thought through the implications, what this new commitment meant to me. I had taken responsibility for a new life. I'd never cast myself in any sort of nurturing role, not spousal, not paternal, and certainly not this. I'd never even had a pet.

Yet, here I was. And so was Trowa. I studied his face first. I saw no marks upon him. No sign that anyone had mistreated him. His shirt remained buttoned as he had done it up this morning. All but the top two buttons. I stood and unbuttoned the rest, wanting to make certain he was intact.

His body was easy to maneuver while he was shut down, and I removed both his shirt and trousers easily. I hung them in the wardrobe, placed his shoes beneath them on the shoe rack. It looked strange that he still wore socks, so I removed them too. Trowa lay in his black briefs. I hesitated and bit down on my lip, and then I removed them too. It made me feel strange: half molester, half-caretaker.

I checked his skin, turning his body this way and that, and then laying him upon his stomach. He was unblemished, his skin as smooth as I remembered it. I indulged a few sweeps of my hand down his thigh, feeling the silk of his skin, the simulated muscle tone.

What would it be like? I wondered. I touched the firm flatness of his belly, traced the definition there. If he were awake and I touched him like this, what would he do? Would it be so wrong?

I closed my eyes and brought my hands back to myself. My knowledge of Trowa's programmed enslavement to my pleasure halted my thoughts, my curiosity, and turned the heat in my gut to ice.

I put his underwear and socks back on him, and I found a set of my own pyjamas for him to wear. They were easier to get on him than the dress slacks and fine shirt of before. I arranged him in the pyjamas and left him upon the bed, as if he were napping.

I went to the kitchen, my intention to have lunch and think, but the telephone rang, and so I answered it instead.

"Hey, Q!" came Duo's voice. "You avoiding me?"

"Hi. No, I'm not really, just haven't been feeling like talking."

"So you got rid of him, eh?" It was hard to tell through the frequency filtering of the phone, but Duo sounded disappointed. Of course he would be.

"Almost," I said. "He's here. I couldn't go through with it."

I heard Duo chuckle. "See?" he said.

"What?" I sounded more petulant than I'd intended. Duo just had his way.

"He's irresistible to you. They're designed that way."

"It's not that," I said, firmly.

"Sure it is," Duo insisted. "All that psych evaluation they do, it's for this sort of thing. Trowa's tailored for every aspect of your psychology."

"It's not about sex though." I had not been manipulated. Not by Trowa, not by those psychology tests, not by ARI.

"Maybe you're just mental about sex too." Duo posited.

"No," I said, ignoring the pejorative double entendre. Then I shrugged and chuckled. "Well, maybe I am, but it's not that."

"You don't think?"

"You know how I gave Trowa that sketchbook?"

"Sure."

"He'd been drawing in it. Nothing that he showed me, but it was all becoming increasingly creative and even... personal."

"Yeah, really?" Duo sounded skeptical.

"He even drew himself. A self portrait, Duo."

"That's a clever trick."

I shook my head. "I think it's more than that. I think it shows he's got some self-awareness, some form of real consciousness."

"Yeah, why not," Duo said. His tone told me it was a blow off. "But, I wasn't really calling about that. You wanna do lunch this week?"

"Wednesday?" I suggested.

"One o'clock okay?"

"Two," I amended. "We have clients coming in from Germany this week."

"Two, then. Italian?"

"Sounds good."

"Davinci's?"

"Sure. I'll see you there then."

"Right, bye, Q"

"Bye."

I switched off the phone and sighed. I should wake Trowa. I didn't know what to say to him, but it wasn't fair to leave him in limbo, whether he experienced the passage of time didn't matter. Time was passing.

I returned to his bedroom. My gaze feel upon the blank wall above a library table. I could hang Orpheus here for Trowa. I decided to do that for him before waking him. It took me some time to recall where I had last seen my self-adhesive picture hooks, and they were not in the first place I looked. Nor were they in the second through sixth places. They were of course in precisely the last place. Fortunately my laser measure was found more easily, as was the painting itself. After returning to Trowa's room, I measured the painting, measured the wall space, and placed two hooks.

Then, with utmost care, I swore and sweated and fussed and after ten minutes of fumbling about, got the picture wire snagged upon both hooks. "There," I said and stepped back to see if the painting were level. It wasn't. Instead of eyeballing it, I deployed the level feature of my laser measure.

"Perfect," I said and looked about the room. The linens in the room would need to be changed to go better with the colours in the painting. I would let Trowa choose replacements. It might be good for him, to exercise his aesthetic judgement and do something for himself.

The room could also use new light fixtures, a lamp or two, maybe a chair. All tasks I would give to Trowa. And if he did not want the bed, perhaps he would prefer a desk or an easel. yes, I would have to get him an easel and some paints. Water colours? Oils? or maybe he'd prefer something like pastels.

I stopped myself with a laugh. I was getting far too far ahead of himself, and likely of Trowa as well. This could happen slowly. There was no rush now, no danger.

I returned to sit upon the mattress near Trowa and rested my hand again on his ankle. "Hello, Trowa," I said, and waited.

I could see the impulse to open his arrive and be stilled, for he did not open his eyes immediately. His chest rose and fell with new breaths. Artificial they may be, but it was a powerful sign of life returning. His lips twitched, on the verge of speech. Then he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "Quatre?" he asked.

"Yes, Trowa."

"What has happened?" He sat up, glanced at his--at my--pyjamas, looked at my hand on his ankle, and then raised his gaze to my face briefly, for The Death of Orpheus drew his attention. "Am I dead?"

"No," I said with a smile. "You're fine. You're home."

He looked about the room some more. "This is your guest room."

"It's your room now."

Puzzlement registered upon Trowa's features. "I thought I was to be returned."

"I changed my mind," I said.

Trowa looked at his pyjamas again. They were his now. The bronze and aubergine satin stripes looked good on him. "Do you wish for me to sleep?"

"No," I said. "I just wanted you to, um, be comfortable."

"All right, Quatre," said Trowa. He sat silently for a long while, and then he said, "Why did you change your mind? Do you mind my asking?"

"I don't mind," I said. "After you left, I looked at your sketchbook."

Trowa's gaze followed my gesture toward the mentioned item. "I don't understand," he said.

"You drew yourself, Trowa."

"Yes," he said, as if it were perfectly obvious and inevitable that he had.

"Well," I said, "I think that shows you're self-aware."

"Of course I am." Again, perfectly obvious.

I laughed. "I didn't believe you before," I reminded him.

Trowa laughed too, in his soft and subdued manner. For a moment, I felt completely comfortable with him. I squeezed his ankle.

He looked at me curiously.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I'm sorry for not paying more attention to you this week, I'm sorry for not noticing what you were doing."

"It's all right, Quatre. I'm not upset."

I tilted my head, still feeling a prickle of shame. "I still owe you an apology though."

"I accept your apology."

"Thank you." I slid my hand up Trowa's calf and back down, and then off and back to fold it together with my other hand in my lap. "So, um," I started. I wanted to make it up to him somehow, but it was hard to know how given the limitations of Trowa's apparent desires and will. "I'm also sorry for making you scared." I said. This question came not only from genuine regret, but also from curiosity on my part.

"Scared?" Trowa asked me.

"The last drawing in your sketchbook, " I said. "Shows you like Orpheus, about to be dismembered--or in your case, dismantled, I guess."

"Yes," said Trowa. "I thought it was a valid analogy."

"I thought so too," I said. "It's a powerful drawing. I am sorry."

"There is no need for your continued apologies, Quatre."

"Were you scared?"

"I don't know. I did not want to leave you, and I did not want to die."

"Fear can manifest as antipathy," I said. "And it's good that you wanted something else, I think."

"I don't understand."

"You wanted to live, that's something other than wanting to please me."

"If I am dead I cannot please you," Trowa said.

"True," I acknowledged. It still seemed like more to me. On an intuitive level there was something more, but perhaps Trowa's limited experience left him unable to understand or articulate what he had experienced.

"Do you still believe I am defective?"

I shook my head. "Not at all."

"I will try harder not to displease you."

"I don't want you to be constrained like that," I said. "I'd like, Trowa, for you to feel free to pursue what interests you, without worrying whether it pleases me or not.

"In fact," I said. "It would please me more to know that you were able to act with more autonomy."

"All right."

"Like the drawings you did. You didn't do them for me, did you?"

"You wanted me to learn to draw, so I did."

I frowned. I was growing confused; at what point were my desires and Trowa's desires separate things.

"What would like to do now?" I asked him. "Anything, don't worry about what pleases me or not."

"It may displease you for me to tell you."

"That's okay. Tell me anyway."

"I would like to see your body, Quatre. I would like to touch you."

Looking and touching need not be sexual, I reminded myself, and I did owe Trowa. So instead of telling Trowa no or trying to dissuade him, I said, "Would you like to give me a back massage?"

The android smiled. "Yes, I would like that."


	11. Epilogue: A Beginning

"You're very beautiful, Quatre," Trowa said to me.

We were in my bedroom. I had pulled back the covers on my bed and undressed to my boxer shorts. "Beautiful?" I asked, with a quirked eyebrow of skepticism. No one had ever called me beautiful before: cute, often; handsome, certainly; sexy, on occasion; and gorgeous, once or twice--but beautiful? Never.

"Yes," said Trowa from where he sat at the foot of my bed, still in his new pyjamas. "The proportions of your body are very close to classical ideals of male beauty, you have sparse body hair, and you are very youthful looking for your age."

"Oh, I see," I said from the closet where I was hanging my clothes. I was amused now, and somewhat flattered. Even if Trowa's evaluation of my appearance were based upon mathematical measurements and Greek ratios, it still affected my vanity and my ego. "Thank you."

"Further, the combination of fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes is often celebrated."

I laughed softly and came to the bed, where I lay down on my stomach.

Trowa kept speaking, and I held myself up on my elbows, turned my head to meet his gaze. "I find it a pleasant experience to look at you," he said, turning his body toward me and drawing his legs onto the bed. "In some ways, it is even more pleasant to look at you now. Your body is better displayed." He raised himself to his knees and moved to straddle my hips.

The sold warmth of him over my body made me shiver. I caught my bottom lip between my teeth. When he placed a hand on the bare skin at small of my back, his hand was warm too.

Trowa appeared thoughtful; he frowned at me. "Although," he continued, "the clothes you typically wear are pleasing to observe as well."

I laughed again, and, despite the apprehension trampling through my gut, I looked away from Trowa and lowered myself to the bed, resting my head upon my folded arms.

"Except for the brown sweater you wear on occasion after work. The colour isn't flattering to your complexion."

"I know it's not flattering," I replied, amusement twisted with my anxiety. "I wear it because one of my sisters, Iria, knitted it for me."

"So you wear it for sentimental reasons?" Both of Trowa's hands rested on my skin.

"Yes," I admitted, with an involuntary quiver up my spine. "Not that I'm necessarily proud of that."

"Why is that, Quatre?" Trowa asked as he drew his hands lightly up my back to my shoulders.

"Hmm? I prefer not to let sentiment affect my decision making."

"Then it was not sentiment that influenced your decision to keep me?" Trowa's thumbs pressed into the muscle over my shoulder blades.

That felt good. "Uh uh," was the best I could manage, along with a vague attempt at shaking my head against my arms.

Trowa correctly interpreted my growing incoherence as signal for him to cease questioning me. The massage began gently, his fingers probing into my muscles, exploring my back. He prompted me to unfold my arms so he could massage them also. I made sure to give him appropriate verbal cues for the touches I particularly enjoyed. His hands gained surety upon my body, moving with greater pressure and smoothness of rhythm. Heat suffused my flesh, not the heat of arousal--I remained too apprehensive for that--but of relaxation, of muscles gradually melting into bliss.

I lost track of time. I fell into that lovely realm of almost sleep, hung in that purgatory between sleep and wakefulness. Trowa must have spent an hour at least on my back before he spoke softly, rousing me from my relaxed stupor.

"The tension in your back and shoulders is relieved," he said. "Would you like me to continue?"

Yes? No? I silently cursed my ambivalence. "If you like," I said.

"Shall I do your legs as well?" Trowa inquired.

I nodded, and Trowa shifted over me; his hands skimmed over the fabric covering my backside and then smoothed down the skin my thighs. This time, inquisitive heat teased my groin, but I ignored it. I hoped only that Trowa would not ask me to turn over.

"Thank you," I mumbled.

"You're welcome," said Trowa from somewhere behind me. The massage continued for another hour, Trowa rubbing my legs, back, and arms in a seductive, pleasurable rhythm. He made no attempts to seduce me, and for that I was grateful. The massage alone was an indulgence for me. None of my previous partners had ever carried on this long. Eventually they would complain of sore thumbs and cramping hands. Not Trowa. He kept going with perfect pace and pressure, and--best of all--no apparent ulterior motivation for the touching.

I was the one who ended it, not Trowa. I realised I needed to relieve my bladder, and I was growing hungry. I apologised to Trowa for the weaknesses of biology I possessed. He pulled the sheet up over my back, and left me alone to rouse myself.

~*~

After I'd showered and dressed--back in pyjamas and robe, for it was Saturday after all--I went to the kitchen. Trowa had prepared soup and salad for me. I thanked him, and he seemed pleased. He got his sketchbook and pencils and sat at the table with me as I ate. I laughed when I realised he was drawing an abstract version of me eating. 'Being Biological', he titled the drawing.

"Would you like for me to get you some paints, Trowa? Or pastels? Charcoal?"

"Yes, please," he answered, nothing more specific than that.

"You're so polite," I observed.

"As are you," he countered with a smile.

I returned his smile easily and with a surprising affection nestled close to my heart. Though the feeling was genuine and I didn't challenge it, I still didn't know how to account for it. But I realized, that was something I could look forward to understanding as I came to know Trowa better. It was a start, anyway.


End file.
